BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THIS  VOLUME. 


GOLD  THAT  DID  NOT  GLITTER, 

BY  VIRGINIUS  DABNEY. 


121110.     Clotli.     $1.25. 


Testimonials. 

"  If  the  hero's  gold  does  not,  the  author's  style  certainly  does  glitter  and 
sparkle  in  a  most  surprising  manner.  The  book  reminds  one  of  instan 
taneous  photography,  depicting  a  whole  scene  in  a  single  flash." — New 
York  Home  Journal. 

"A  gay  little  novel,  refreshing  to  read,  difficult  to  lay  down."— Chicago 
Tribune. 

"Bright,  crispy,  witty,  epigrammatic,  and  good-natured,  and  with  the 
happiest  of  de'nouements,  with  a  manly  lover  and  and  an  adorable  be 
loved."—  Boston  Literary  World. 

"There  is  a  commingling  of  pith  and  pathos  which  makes  the  story 
whollv  irresistible." — The  Baltimore  American. 

"This  little  novel  is  written  with  rare  grace.  It  is  a  simple  tale,  very 
romantic,  coquettish  we  might  say,  and  will  hold  the  reader's  interest  for 
every  one  of  its  too  few  pages."— Utica  Herald. 

"  Mr.  Dabney's  keen  wit  and  wholesome  humor  give  a  delicious  flayor 
to  the  whole  book." — Richmond  "Slate." 

"  All  of  Mr.  Dabney's  characters  are  interesting,  his  scenes  are  skilfully 
set  before  the  reader  and  he  gives  plenty  of  negro  dialect  for  those  who 
like  that  sort  of  thing.  '  Gold  that  Did  Not  Glitter'  is  not  as  strong  as  its 
author's  '  Don  Miff,'  but  it  is  a  merry  tale." — New  York  Herald. 

"  A.  novel  that  will  give  much  pleasure  for  its  brightness  and  originality 
of  style,  as  well  as  for  its  admirable  character  sketching.  .  .  .  There  is  a  • 
vein  of  exquisite  humor  running  through  the  story,  the  action  of  which  is 
rapid  and  the  interest  unflagging."— Boston  Home  Journal. 


*if  For  sale  by  all  Booksellers,  or  will  be  sent  by  the  Publishers,  post-paid, 
on  receipt  of  price. 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY, 

Publishers, 

715  and  717  Market  St.,  Phila. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF, 


AS   TOLD   BY   HIS   FRIEND 


JOHN  BOUCHE  WHACKER. 


A  SYMPHONY  OF  LIFE. 


EDITED    BY 

VIRGINIUS  DABNEY. 


TEKVOV,  rl  /eAa/'«?  ;  ri  6s  as  <j>peva<;  IKETO  mvQos  ; 
'Efati(5a,  itfj  Ksvde  vow,  Iva  ddofiev  u{j.<j>u. 

ILIAD,  i.  362-63. 

Child,  why  dost  thou  weep  ?     What  grief  hath  come  upon  thy  spirit  ? 
Speak — conceal  it  not — so  that  we  both  may  know. 


SEVENTH  EDITION. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY. 
1890. 


Copyright,  1886,  by  VIRGINITIS  DABNBT. 


PS 


PEEFAOE. 


IT  is  pretty  well  understood,  I  presume,  that  while 
books  are  written  for  the  entertainment  of  the  public, 
a  preface  has  fulfilled  its  mission  if  it  prove  a  solace 
to  the  author  and  an  edification  to  the  proof-reader 
thereof.  Yet  (however  it  may  be  with  an  author)  an 
editor  must,  it  seems,  write  one. 

Most  mystei'iously,  then,  and  I  knew  not  whence  or 
from  whom,  the  manuscript  of  this  work  found  itself 
in  my  study,  some  time  since,  accompanied  by  the  re 
quest  that  I  should  stand  sponsor  for  it. 

I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  True,  the  grammar 
of  it  will  pass  muster,  I  think ;  and  its  morals  are  above 
reproach ;  but  the  way  our  author  has  of  sailing  into 
everything  and  everybody  quite  takes  my  breath  away. 
Lawyers,  military  men,  professors  and  students,  par 
sons,  agnostics,  statesmen,  billiard-playei's,  novelists, 
poetesses,  saints  and  sinners — he  girds  at  them  all.  I 
should  not  have  a  friend  left  in  the  world  were  it  to 
go  abroad  that  this  Mr.  J.  B.  Whacker's  opinions  were 
also  mine.  If  but  to  enter  this  disclaimer,  therefore,  I 
must  needs  write  a  preface. 

This  author  of  ours,  then,  is,  as  you  shall  find,  an 
actor  in  the  scenes  he  describes,  and  is  quite  welcome 
to  any  sentiments  he  may  see  fit  to  put  into  his  own 
mouth.  He  entertains,  I  am  free  to  admit,  an  unusual 
number  of  opinions ;  more  than  one  man's  share,  per 
haps  ;  but  not  one  of  them  is  either  reader  or  editor 
called  upon  to  adopt. 

It  seems  fair,  too,  to  warn  the  eccentric  person  who 
shall  read  this  preface,  against  putting  too  much  faith 
in  the  account  Mr.  Whacker  gives  of  himself.  The  as- 

3 


573081 


4  PREFACE. 

tounding  pedigree  to  which  he  lays  claim  in  Chapter  T. 
may  be  satire,  for  aught  I  know ;  but  when  he  poses 
as  a  lawyer,  a  bachelor,  and  a  ton  of  a  man,  weighing 
(though  he  does  not  give  the  exact  figures)  not  much 
less  than  three  hundred  pounds,  he  is  counting  too 
much  on  the  simplicity  of  his  editor.  For  the  internal 
evidence  of  the  work  itself  makes  it  clear  that  he  is  a 
physician,  ever  so  much  married,  and  nestling  amid 
a  very  grove  of  olive  branches.  He  assures  us,  too, 
for  example  (he  is  never  tired  of  assuring  us  of  some 
thing),  that  he  is  entirely  ignorant  of  music ;  yet  divides 
his  work  not  into  books  (as  a  Christian  should),  but 
into  movements;  indicating  (presumably)  the  spirit  and 
predominant  feeling  of  each  by  the  opening  page  of  the 
orchestral  score  of  one  of  the  four  numbers  of  a  famoun 
symphony  I 

One  more  word  and  I  am  done. 

Our  author  has  not  seen  fit  to  make  any  reply  to  the 
incessant,  and  still  unceasing  onslaughts,  from  pen  and 
pencil  alike,  to  which  the  South  has  submitted,  and 
still  submits,  twenty-one  years  after  Appomattox,  with 
a  silence  that  has  been  as  grand  as  it  is  unparalleled. 

His  only  revenge  has  been  to  paint  his  people  and 
the  lives  they  led. 

But  it  seems  to  me  best  to  say,  once  for  all,  that 
whenever  the  necessities  of  the  narrative  compel  him 
to  show  his  sympathies  on  one  side  or  the  other  (as 
happens  two  or  three  times  in  the  course  of  the  story), 
they  will  be  found  to  be  with  those  people  among  whom 
he  was  born,  by  whose  side  he  fought,  and  with  whom  he 
has  suffered.  And  I  feel  sure  that  no  man  who  knows 
me,  in  the  South,  and  equally  sure  that  no  man  who 
knows  me,  in  the  North,  would  deem  me  capable  of 
printing  this  book,  had  it  been  otherwise. 

Y.  DABKEY, 

108  WEST  FORTY-NINTH  STREET, 
April,  1886.  NEW  YORK. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 


CHAPTER  I. 

1. 

LONG,  long  years  before  these  pages  shall  meet  thine 
almond  eye,  my  Ah  Yung  Whack,  the  hand  which 
penned  them  for  thy  delectation  will  have  crumbled 
into  dust.  Three  hundred  years  and  more,  let  us  say  ; 
for  thou  art  (or  shalt  in  due  time  be)  my  great-great- 
great-great-great-great  -  great  -  great  -  great-great-grand 
son. 

3. 

True,  I  am  not  yet  married  ;  but  I  intend  to  be. 
Nor  is  there  any  need  of  hurry  ;  seeing  what  a  singu 
larly  distant  and  belated  relative  thou  art. 

3. 

If  then,  dear,  intended  Offspring,  you  will  be  so  an 
achronistic  as  to  sit  beside  your  proposed  ancestor,  and 
so  civil  as  to  lend  him  your  ear,  he  will  give  you  one 
or  two  reasons  for  addressing  you,  rather  than  the 
general  public  of  his  own  day. 


First,  then,  humanity. 

This  poor  public  of  his  (that  is  my)  day  has  been, 
these  many  years,  so  pelted  with  books,  that  I  cannot 
bring  myself  to  join  the  mob  of  authors,  and  let  fly 
another. 

The  very  leaves  in  Vallambrosa,  flying  before  the 
blasts  of  autumn,  cannot  compare  with  them  in  num 
bers,  as  they  go  whizzing  from  innumerable  presses. 

1*  6 


6  THE  STORY   OF  DON  MIFF. 

Why,  I  read,  the  other  day,  a  statement  (by  a  stater) 
that  if  you  were  to  set  up,  in  rows,  all  the  books  that 
are  annually  published  in  Christendom  (beg  pardon,  my 
boy,  Evolutiondom),  and  then  fell  to  sawing  out  shelves 
for  them  in  the  pine  forests  of  North  Carolina,  the 
North  Carolinians  would  soon  find  themselves  inhabi 
tants  of  a  prairie. 

Or,  to  put  it  in  another  shape : 

The  earth,  adds  Mr.  Statisticker,  the  earth,  we  will 
allow,  for  illustration's  sake,  to  be  twenty-five  thousand 
miles  around.  Now,  says  he,  suppose  all  these  books 
to  be  pulled  to  pieces  [shame!]  and  their  leaves  pinned 
together,  end  to  end,  they  would  stretch  ever  so  (for  I 
cannot,  at  the  moment,  lay  my  hands  on  his  little  sta 
tistic)  they  would  stretch  ever  so  far. 

Shall  I  add  to  the  already  unbearable  burdens  of  my 
generation  ?  Humanity  forbid  I 

e. 

And  look  at  this : 

In  any  given  country  a  certain  number  of  under 
garments  will  be  worn  out,  year  by  year,  producing  a 
certain  crop  of  rags.  These  rags  can  be  converted 
into  so  much,  and  no  more,  paper.  Hence,  as  any 
thinking  man  would  have  reasoned  (until  the  advent 
of  a  recent  invention),  the  advancing  flood  of  literature 
was  practically  held  in  check.  So  many  exhausted 
shirts,  so  many  books, — so  many  exhausted  washer 
women,  so  many  (and  no  more)  authors.  There  was 
a  limit. 

That  day  is  gone.  Wood-pulp  and  cheap  editions 
have  opened  the  flood-gates  of  genius  upon  the  world  ; 
and  the  days  of  our  noble  forests  are  numbered ;  for 
one  tree  is  sawn  into  shelves  to  hold  another  ground 
into  paper.  And  already,  through  the  denudation  of  the 
land,  the  Mississippi  grows  uncontrollable,  taxing  even 
the  wisdom  of  Congress.  And  many  a  lesser  stream, 
in  which  once  the  salmon  sported,  or  which  turned  a 
mill,  or  meandered,  at  least,  past  orchard  or  corn  land, 
a  steady  source  of  fruitful  moisture,  is  now  a  fierce  tor- 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  7 

rent  in  spring,  in  autumn  a  string  of  stagnant  pools, 
What  the  builder  began,  the  builder  (for  that,  I  hear,  is 
the  Greek  for  him)  and  the  novelist  will  end. 
Shall  I  too  print  a  book  ?    Patriotism  forbid  I 

6. 

The  trouble  is,  however,  that  I  feel  that  I  have  some 
thing  to  say,  and  a  man  that  has  something  to  say,  and 
is  not  allowed  to  say  it,  is  (like  a  woman  or  a  boiler)  in 
danger.  Nor  has  my  native  land,  when  I  come  to  think 
of  it,  the  right  to  exact  of  me  that  I  burst,  to  save  a 
beggarly  sapling  or  so  from  purification. 


Yes,  I  have  something  to  say,  and  I'll  out  with  it. 
For  I  have  hit  upon  a  plan  whereby  I  can  print  my 
book  with  the  merest  infinitesimal  damage  to  the  Mis 
sissippi  and  other  patriotic  streams.  It  is  this.  I  shall 
have  but  one  copy  printed.  This,  in  a  strong  box,  her- 
metically  sealed,  shall  be  addressed  to  you.  I  shall 
hand  it  to  my  eldest  son,  and  he  to  his ;  and  so  it  will 
travel  down  the  stream  of  time  till  it  reach  you ;  which 
strikes  me  as  a  neat,  inexpensive,  and  effectual  way  of 
reaching  that  goal  of  all  authors,  posterity.  From 
father  to  son,  and  from  grandson  to  great-grandson. 

Provided,  of  course,  they  shall  all  have  the  courage 
(as  I  intend  to  have)  to  get  married.  If  not — or  what 
would  become  of  the  book,  should  there  be  twins  ?— 
but  I  leave  these  details  to  take  care  of  themselves. 
One  of  them  might  not  live,  for  example. 

On  second  thought,  though,  it  might  be  as  well  to 
have  two  copies  struck  off;  yes,  and  while  we  are 
about  it,  a  dozen  extra  ones,  for  private  distribution 
among  my  friends. 

8* 

And  one  friend,  especially,  but  for  whom  this  non 
sense  would  not  now  be  bubbling  up  so  serenely  from 
my  tranquil  soul. 

9. 

I  have  just  bad  a  conversation  with  my  publisher, 
which  greatly  disturbs  me. 


8  TEE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

He  tells  me  that  all  this  talk  about  limiting  the 
edition  to  a  dozen  copies  is  midsummer  madness, — where 
am  I  to  come  in  ?  said  he,  using  the  language  of  the 
period, — and  that  he  intends  to  print  as  many  copies  as 
he  pleases.  So  everything  is  upset.  And  I  shall  have 
to  recast  my  entire  work,  which,  you  must  know,  is 
already,  with  the  exception  of  this  first  chapter,  fin 
ished  and  ready  for  the  printer,  down  to  the  last  semi 
colon.  For,  as  it  stands,  my  boy,  everything  I  say  is 
addressed  to  you  only ;  and  my  book  may  be  compared 
to  a  telephone  with  a  private  wire  three  hundred  years 
long.  But  since  my  publisher  is  going  to  give  the  gen 
eral  public  the  right  to  hook  on  and  hear  what  I  am 
Baying,  it  is  extremely  probable  that  my  monologue 
will  be  very  often  interrupted.  Whenever,  therefore, 
you  find  me  suddenly  ceasing  to  speak  to  you  person 
ally,  and,  after  a  word  with  my  contemporaries,  drop 
ping  back  to  our  private  wire,  you  may  be  sure  that 
there  has  been  a  "  Hello  ?"  and  a  "  Who's  that?"  and  a 
"  Well,  good-by  1"  somewhere  along  a  cross-line. 

10. 

And  this  is  the  thing  that  I  feel  that  I  have  to  say : 
I  would  tell  you  something  of  the  land  of  your  fore 
fathers.  Something  of  Virginia.  Not  new  Virginia, — 
not  West  Virginia, — but  the  Old  Dominion  and  her  peo 
ple,  such  as  they  were  when  Plancus  was  consul.  And, 
first  of  all,  I  will  tell  you  why  I  have  thought  it  worth 
while  to  lay  the  following  sketches  before  you. 

11. 

The  world,  in  my  day,  is  full  of  unrest.  Everywhere 
anxious  care  and  the  eager  struggle  for  wealth.  Mr. 
Spencer's  Gospel  of  Recreation  finds  few  adherents,  and 
the  Genius  of  Repose  seems  to  have  winged  its  way  to 
other  spheres. 

And  I  fear  matters  will  be  worse  in  your  day ;  and, 
just  as  one,  on  a  broiling  July  afternoon,  looks  with  a 
real,  though  evanescent,  pleasure  upon  pictured  polar 
bears  gambolling  amid  icebergs  (in  the  show-window 
of  a  soda-water  shop),  so  I  cannot  but  think  that  it 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  g 

would  be  a  genuine  boon  to  you  could  I  but  lead  you 
for  an  hour  from  out  the  dust  and  heat  and  turmoil  of 
your  life  and  bid  you  cease  striving  for  a  little  while, 
while  I  (I,  too,  forgetting  for  a  moment  that  every 
crust  must  be  fought  for),  while  I  reproduce  from  out 
the  cool  caves  of  my  memory  certain  scenes  that  I  bave 
witnessed. 

True,  some  of  them  I  have  not  seen  'with  my  own 
eyes,  but  Charley  has,  or  else  Alice,  whicb  is  just  as 
well. 

is. 

Yes,  my  lad,  I  think  the  glimpses  I  am  about  to  give 
you  of  the  old  Virginia  life  will  refresh  your  tired  soul. 
Just  as  it  refreshes  mine  to  draw  the  pictures  for  you. 
For  from  me,  as  well,  the  reality  has  vanished.  Our 
civil  war  (war  of  the  rebellion,  as  the  underbred  among 
the  victors  still  call  it)  swept  that  into  the  abyss  of  the 
past ;  but  let  me  with  such  poor  wand  as  I  wield  sum 
mon  it  before  you. 

In  Pompeii,  the  tourist,  looking  from  blank  wall  to 
dusty  floor,  wonders  what  there  is  to  see  in  that  little 
ball ;  but  a  native  goes  down  upon  his  hands  and  knees ; 
with  a  few  brisk  passes  of  his  hand  the  sand  is  brushed 
away,  and  a  Numidian  lion  glares  forth  from  the  tes 
sellated  pavement.  So  I,  brushing  aside  tbe  fast-settling 
dust,  would  make  you  see  that  old  life  as  I  saw  it. 

And,  strangely  enough,  I,  too,  bave  a  lion  to  show 
you.  For,  while  my  real  object  was  by  a  series  of 
sketches  to  bring  into  clear  relief  the  careless  ease,  the 
sweet  tranquillity,  the  unapproachable  serenity  of  those 
old  days,  I  did  not  see  my  way  to  making  these  sketches 
interesting.  (For  not  alone  in  a  repast  for  the  body  is 
the  serving  almost  everything.)  But  the  thought 
occurred  to  me  to  stitch  them  together  with  the  thread 
of  a  story  into  a  kind  of  panorama.  For  this  story  I 
had  to  find  a  hero.  To  invent  one  would  have  been,  I 
am  sure,  quite  beyond  my  powers ;  and  what  I  should 
have  done  I  am  at  a  loss  to  conjecture  had  I  not  found 
one  ready  made  to  my  hand  :  a  very  remarkable  young 
man,  that  is,  who  in  a  very  remarkable  way  suddenly 
made  his  appearance  upon  the  boards  of  our  little 


10  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

theatre,  upon  which  were  serenely  enacting  the  tran 
quil  scenes  in  which  I  would  steep  your  care-worn 
soul.  This  is  the  lion  that  I  have  to  show  you.  And 
when  he  begins  to  shake  his  mane  and  lash  his  sides, 
you  will  find  things  growing  a  trifle  lurid  in  our  little 
impromptu  drama.  Absolutely  none  of  which  was  upon 
the  original  programme.  But  dropping  from  the  sky, 
as  it  were,  in  .the  midst  of  our  troupe,  what  should  he 
do  but  straightway  fall  in  love  with  one  of  our  pretty 
little  actresses.  And  then  the  trouble  began  and  the 
tranquillity  came  to  an  end. 

13. 

As  for  me,  the  manager  of  the  show,  you  will  see  that 
I  have  done  my  best  to  relieve  the  gloom.  Between 
the  acts,  —  between  the  scenes,  —  nay,  even  while  they 
are  going  on,  —  you  shall  find  me  continually  popping 
out  before  the  foot-lights  and  interrupting  the  play, 
and  raking  the  audience  with  a  rattling  rigmarole.  All 
for  the  sake  of  keeping  their  spirits  up.  And  on  more 
than  one  occasion  I  go  the  length  (or  breadth,  as  Alice 
suggests)  of  standing  on  my  head  and  making  faces  at 
Charley  in  the  prompter's  box.  How  I  should  have 
gotten  on  had  he  not  sat  there,  or  without  Alice  in  the 
wings  (to  superintend  the  love-passages),  I  am  sure  I 
cannot  tell.  And  if,  at  the  end  of  the  play,  I  am  called 
before  the  curtain,  I  shall  refuse  to  budge  unless  hand 
in  hand  with  my  two  co-workers  ;  who,  though  content 
to  be  for  the  most  part  silent  partners  in  this  under 
taking,  have  really  put  in  most  of  the  capital. 


It  is  understood,  then,  between  us,  Ah  Yung,  that 
while  this  story  is  composed  for  your  delectation,  the 
injunctions  of  my  publisher  force  me  to  recognize  tho 
possibility  of  contemporary  readers.  The  situation  is 
awkward.  As  though  a  third  person  were  present  at 
a  confidential  interview.  Ah,  I  have  it. 

While  I  am  talking  to  you,  the  contemporary  reader 
may  nod  ;  and  when  I  turn  to  her,  you  have  leave  to 
nap  it.  And  small  blame  to  the  contemporary  reader. 


THE  StfORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  H 

For  what  I  shall  say  to  you  will  seem  to  her  (and 
especially  my  didactic  spurts)  the  merest  rubbish. 

Every  school-boy  knows  that,  she  will  say. 

But  I  am  not  to  be  put  down  by  this  crushing  and  fa 
miliar  phrase  of  our  day,  which  simply  means  that  the 
fact  in  question  is  known  to  the  Able-Editor,  who  looked 
it  up  in  the  cyclopaedia  on  his  desk  an  hour  since.  Every 
school-boy  in  ancient  times  knew,  for  instance,  what 
kind  of  a  school  Aristotle  went  to,  and  how  he  was 
taught,  and  what.  Aspasia,  we  may  feel  sure,  knew  no 
German,  nor  had  even  a  smattering  of  French ;  while 
all  conceivable  ologies  were  so  much  Greek  to  her.  And 
yet  she  must  have  known  something.  For  statesmen 
and  philosophers  flocked  to  her  boudoir,  and,  when  she 
spoke,  sat  at  her  feet,  silent  and  wondering.  What  had 
she  been  taught,  and  how  ?  Every  contemporary 
school-girl  knew.  What  audience  could  be  found  now 
in  the  wide  world  that  could  keep  pace  with  the  elo 
quence  of  Demosthenes?  How  had  the  Athenian 
populace  been  taught  ?  For  they  were  more  wonder 
ful  than  their  orator.  Ah,  bow  much  would  we  not 
give  to  know!  But  no  one  thought  it  worth  his  while 
to  set  it  all  down  in  a  little  book ;  and  we  know  not,  and 
must  darkly  guess.  Else  would  we  rise  as  one  man,  and, 
rushing  with  torches  to  all  the  colleges  and  universities 
of  the  land,  incinerate  within  their  costly  walls  their 
armies  of  professors,  along  with  the  hordes  of  oarsmen 
and  acrobats  that  they  annually  empty  on  the  world. 

A  Porch  sufficed  for  Zeno. 

Ah,  there  are  thousands  of  little  things  which  they 
might  have  told  us,  but  did  not.  Ah,  that  Homer,  for 
instance,  had  described  Helen  to  us  as  minutely  as  he 
did  the  shield  of  Achilles.  As  it  is,  we  must  even  con 
jecture  that  she  had  a  Grecian  nose.  Arid  as  for  her 
eyes  and  hair — 

And  the  song  the  Sirens  sang,  what  was  the  tune  of 
it?  How  much  would  I  not  have  given  to  hear  my 
dear  old  grandfather  play  it  on  his  fiddle ! 

And  how  did  Socrates  make  out  without  a  pipe  after 
dinner  while  Xantippe  was  explaining  to  him  how 
many  kinds  of  a  worthless  husband  be  was? 


12  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

Ah,  we  shall  never  know !  Therefore,  my  boy,  I  am 
determined  you  shall  know  something  about  the  Vir 
ginians  in  my  day.  But  excuse  me  for  one  moment, 
— my  telephone-bell  is  ringing. 

is. 

Some  stranger  has  hooked  on. 

'Hello!" 

'Do  you  claim  that  Yirginia  has  ever  produced  a 
Socrates  ?" 

<  Who's  there  ?" 

'  Boston." 

« I  do  not." 

'Ever  see  a  Yirginia  Xantippe?" 

"  Well,  good-by !' 

This  is  the  way  I  am  likely  to  be  interrupted  through 
out  the  entire  course  of  my  story.  True,  I  shall  leave 
out  the  hello  and  good-by  part  of  the  business  as  too 
realistic,  but  you  will  know  when  they  have  been  hook 
ing  on  from  my  stopping  to  argue  with  my  supposed 
readers.  By  the  way,  if  this  chapter  bears,  to  your 
mind,  internal  evidence  of  having  been  composed  in 
Bedlam,  you  will  understand  how  it  has  fared  with  me 
when  I  tell  you  that  I  had  hardly  spoken  a  dozen  words 
when  my  telephone  began  to  ring  like  mad.  A  thou 
sand  cross-lines  at  least  must  have  been  connected  with 
our  private  wire  before  my  first  sentence  was  finished. 
Heavens,  what  a  jingling  they  are  keeping  up  even 
now  I  I  must  speak  with  them. 

"  Hello !  hello !  hello ! — Good-by  I  good-by  1  good- 
by  !"' 

And  why  all  this  clatter,  do  you  suppose  ? 

It  is  nearly  all  about  these  seven  words  in  my  open 
ing  sentence, — Thine' almond  eye,  my  Ah  Yung  Whack. 

I  shall  analyze  the  questions  and  remarks  of  the  first 
hundred  as  a  sample  of  the  thousands. 

Of  this  number,  three  announced  themselves  as  au 
thors  of  English  grammars,  adding  that  they  could  not 
sustain  me  unless  I  changed  my  ah  to  ah  my ;  and  of 
the  three,  one  that  I  should  have  said  Virginian  instead 
of  Virginia  Xantippe;  quoting  a  rule  from  his  own 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  13 

grammar.  "Which  I  was  glad  he  did,  seeing  that  I  had 
never  read  a  line  in  any  English  grammar  in  my  born 
days ;  and  I  find  that  when  you  are  writing  a  book  no 
kind  of  knowledge  comes  amiss. 

I  answered  him  (per  telephone)  by  this  question  in 
political  economy :  whether  he  thought  that  by  a  judi 
cious  tariff  Massachusettsish  enterprise  would  ever  be 
enabled  to  raise  Indian  rubber  under  glass  at  a  profit 
and  successfully  compete  with  the  pauper  labor  of  the 
sun ;  and,  springing  nimbly  from  political  to  domestic 
economy,  I  trusted  that  his  next  Thanksgiving  Turkish 
gobbler  would  sit  light  on  his  stomach.  And  this  I 
meant,  once  for  all,  as  a  defiance  to  the  whole  tribe  of 
grammarians,  be  they  living,  dead,  or  yet  unborn. 

After  the  three  grammarians  come  seven  spelling  re 
formers,  congratulating  me  on  my  courage  in  writing 
yung  instead  of  young.  [How  they  found  this  out  by 
tapping  my  telephone  I  will  explain  later,  if  I  have 
time.]  And  of  these,  one,  who  was  also  a  short-hand 
writer,  thought  Whack  an  improvement  on  Whacker. 

All  the  remainder  of  the  hundred — that  is,  ninety — 
were  young  ladies. 

There  is  a  certain  insinuating  witchery  about  the 
unmarried  voice  of  woman  (among  males  all  widowers 
have  it)  that  is  not  to  be  mistaken,  even  through  a  tele 
phone.  That  is,  when  addressed  to  an  unmarried  ear. 

Of  these  ninety,  every  solitary  one  asked,  "  Have 
you  almond  eyes  ?"  (for  }roung  ladies  can  underscore, 
even  over  a  wire),  and  forty-three  of  them  added,  "  Oh, 
how  cute!"  and  forty-seven,  "  My,  how  cunning!" 

And  of  these  ninety,  eighty-nine  added  that,  by  a 
strange  coincidence,  they,  too,  were  unmarried  ;  the  re 
maining  one  saying  that  she  was  single.  She,  I  take 
it,  was  a  young  widow ;  especially  as  she  went  on  to 
say  that  she  feared  that  I  was  a  sad,  had,  bold,  fascina 
ting  wretch  to  speak  in  my  half-frivolous,  half-business 
like  way  of  the  holy  estate  of  matrimony,  which  had 
been  commended  even  of  St.  Paul.  She  added  that  she 
had  often  been  told  that  her  own  eyes  sloped  a  little. 

2 


14  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

16. 

Now  you,  my  boy,  know  perfectly  well  that  you  aro 
called  Whack.  Nor  will  it  strike  you  that  I  have  re 
formed  the  spelling  of  your  Confucian  name,  Yung. 
As  to  the  Ah,  you  will  smile  at  its  being  mistaken  by  a 
Western  barbarian  for  an  interjection.  But  you  do  not 
know,  and  will  be  amazed  to  hear,  that  you  have  almond 
eyes.  For  you  have  never  seen  any  other  variety. 
This,  therefore,  strikes  me  as  a  fitting  opportunity  for 
explaining  to  you  and  the  contemporary  reader  why 
I  began  with  those  seven  mysterious  words.  You,  at 
least,  can  hardly  regret  their  use,  since  it  was  the 
means  of  showing  you  how  many  candidates  there 
were  for  the  honor  of  being  your  great-great-great- 
great-great-great-great-great-great-great  -  grand  mother. 
The  aspirants  had  never  seen  me,  it  is  true.  So  that 
Jam  not  puffed  up. 

Puffed  up  ?  Alas,  yes,  that  is  my  trouble !  Hence  my 
long  delay.  Woman  after  woman  has  admitted  that 
my  smile  is  sweet,  my  voice  low,  my  ways  winning. 

His  soul  is  beautiful,  they  say;  then  why  will  he 
waddle  when  he  walks? 

And  waddling  is  mirth-provoking  to  every  daughter 
of  Eve,  and  laughter  is  fatal  to  love. 

IT. 

Not  one  word  of  the  caballistic  seven  would  I  have 
written  but  for  two  very  singular  dreams  which  I  had. 
And  this  is  the  way,  so  far  as  I  can  make  out,  that  I 
chanced  to  dream  the  first  one. 

The  line  of  Bishop  Berkeley,  to  the  effect  that  the 
star  of  empire  is  constantly  moving  west,  is  naturally 
a  favorite  with  patriots  in  this  country.  It  is  in  every 
body's  mouth.  I  have  heard  it  cited,  you  could  not 
imagine  how  often ;  so  often,  to  put  it  plainly,  that  I 
would  undertake  to  reckon  up  on  my  fingers  and  toes 
the  number  of  times  I  have  not  heard  it.  Western 
journalists,  especially,  see  their  way  to  quoting  it  so 
frequently  that  they  keep  it  always  in  stock,  electro* 
typed  and  ready  for  use  at  a  moment's  notice  (when 
a  commercial  traveller  registers  at  the  local  hotel,  for 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  15 

instance).  Not  a  Weekly  is  sot  up  as  the  organ  of  the 
pionoerest  water-tank  of  a  Western  railway,  but  you 
shall  see  this  verse  figure  in  the  first  leader.  Now  it  was 
this  line  which,  though  not  the  exciting  cause  of  the 
first  of  my  two  dreams,  gave  direction  to  it,  at  least. 

A  friend  had  sent  me  a  San  Francisco  paper,  and 
meeting  the  familiar  line  therein,  I  began  wondering 
to  myself,  as  I  lay  upon  my  lounge,  where  the  star  of 
empire  could  go  now,  seeing  that  there  was  no  longer 
any  West  left ;  and,  reading  on,  half  awake,  after  a  late 
supper,  and  seeing  in  every  column  allusions  to  the 
glorious  climate  of  California  (in  worn  type),  I  asked 
myself,  with  a  drowsy  smile,  whether  it  were  not  to 
reach  this  same  glorious  climate,  perhaps,  that  the  star 
in  question  had  been  bending  her  steps  westward 
throughout  recorded  time. 

If  she  is  to  go  any  further — I  dozed — I — she — will 
have — to — wade — and  I  fell  asleep ! 

18. 

How  long  I  slept  I  cannot  say ;  but  long  enough  to 
dream  this: 

Dream  I. — [Welsh  rarebit.] 

America,  at  last  (so  it  seemed  to  me  in  my  vision), 
is  full ;  and  thousands  upon  thousands  of  our  redundant 
population  are  pouring  into  Asia, — you  among  the  rest ; 
for  your  day  had  come, — and  you  are  all  as  busy  as 
bees,  cutting  the  throats  of  the  heathen,  in  order  to 
bring  them  to  a  true  knowledge  of  the  living  God,  and 
secure  their  lands, — as  our  ancestors  have  served  the 
treacherous  and  implacable  Red  Men. 

(When  I  speak  of  your  cutting  their  throats,  I  speak 
as  a  man  of  my  time ;  for  it  would  be  the  veriest  pre 
sumption  in  a  mortal  of  this  benighted  day  to  restrict 
heroes  in  the  blaze  of  the  twenty-third  century  to  such 
vulgar  and  ineffectual  methods  of  destroying  their  fel 
low-men.  Indeed,  I  must  do  myself  the  justice  to  say 
that,  when  I  ventured  to  dream  of  you  as  storming  the 
ranges  of  Thian-Shan  and  the  Kuen-Lun,  into  which 
have  fled  the  deluded  remnants  of  the  followers  of  Con 
fucius  (of  whom,  at  the  date  of  this  dream,  you  were 


16  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

not  one),  I  did  not  take  the  liberty  of  picturing  you 
to  myself,  even  in  a  vision  of  the  night-time,  as  labori 
ously  toiling  up  those  rugged  slopes,  convincing,  as  you 
go,  the  unregenerate,  by  the  unanswerable  suasion  of 
breech-loading  cannon  and  repeating  rifles, — lame  con 
trivances  of  our  less-favored  age ;  but) 

Before  my  closed,  yet  prophetic  eye,  you  float  a 
beautiful,  aerial  host  of  missionary  heroes  and  real-estate 
agents,  flecking  the  sky  with  innumerable  winged  craft. 
There !  I  see  the  line  halt !  A  rock-bound  fastness  lies 
just  ahead!  A  captain's  yacht — a  kind  of  mechanical 
American  eagle,  an  'twere — darts  forward  through  the 
limpid  air,  and  poises  itself  just  over  the  enemy,  a  mile 
above  the  earth.  A  field  telephone  drops  into  the  for 
tress,  and  a  parley  is  held.  Unsatisfactory !  for  an  officer 
in  the  uniform  of  the  Flying  Chemists,  leaning  lightly 
over  the  starboard  gunwale,  lets  fall  into  the  stronghold, 
with  admirable  precision,  a  homoeopathic  globule  of  the 
triple-refined  quintessence  of  the  double  extract  of  dyna 
mite.  It  is  finished !  Peace  on  earth,  good  will  toward 
men  I  What  was,  a  moment  since,  a  heaven-piercing 
peak,  is  now  a  hole  in  the  ground, — what  were,  just  now, 
the  adherents  of  an  effete  theology,  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye  are  converted,  if  not  into  Christians,  at  least  into 
almond-eyed  angels, — and  the  victors  can  read  their 
title  clear  to  mansions  near  the  skies,  and  to  the  rice- 
fields  of  the  Yang-tsi-Kiang,  or  the  tea-orchards  of  the 
Hoang-Ho. 

I  am  persuaded  that  every  fair-minded  man  will 
allow  this  to  have  been  a  dream  that  not  even  Pharaoh 
need  have  blushed  to  own.  I  feel  that  it  does  me 
credit.  But  would  it  have  been  prudent  in  me  (as  a 
professional  dreamer)  to  see  that  one  vision,  and  then, 
as  we  lawyers  say,  rest  my  case?  Perhaps  I  had  gone 
all  astray.  Who  is  this  Bishop  Berkeley,  after  all  ? 
Have  men,  in  their  migrations,  always  followed  the 
sun  ?  Who  destroyed  the  Mound-Builders  ?  and 
whence  came  they?  and  their  destroyers?  from  the 
East?  or  from  the  West? 

To  certain  insects,  which  live  but  a  single  day,  the 
winds  may  very  well  seem  to  blow  always  in  one  direc- 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  17 

tion ;  and  there  may  be  in  the  affairs  of  men  a  tide 
which  ebbs  and  flows  in  aeons  rather  than  in  ho.urs. 
And  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  cloud-speck  rising 
along  the  Pacific  coast?  Is  the  nineteenth  century,  so 
remarkable  in  many  respects  (for  instance,  brag),  to 
usher  in  an  era  as  yet  unsuspected  ?  Is  the  tide  trem 
bling  at  its  utmost  flood, — and  is  the  reflux  upon  us? 
Are  the  "  lower  orders"  the  real  prophets,  as  they  have 
ever  been  before?  And  is  their  animosity  against  the 
Chinese  but  a  blind  feeling  of  the  truth  that  in  these 
new-comers  the  European  races  have  met  their  mas 
ters  ?  Can  it  be  that  under  the  contempt  expressed  for 
them-  as  inferiors  there  lurks  a  secret,  unrealized  sense 
of  their  real  superiority  ? 

For  wherein  do  we  surpass  the  Indian  whom  we  are 
so  rapidly  supplanting?  In  two  things:  endurance 
under  toil  and  strength  to  hoard, — industry  and  self- 
denial.  By  force  of  these  traits  we  have  driven  the 
Red  Men  from  their  homes.  And  now,  on  the  Pacific, 
we  meet  a  race  as  superior  to  us  in  these  qualities  as 
we  are  to  the  Indian  or  the  negro. 

Obviously,  therefore,  if  I  would  get  at  the  bottom  of 
the  business,  it  behooved  me  to  see  another  vision.  It 
was  not  long  in  coming.  The  very  next  day  a  party 
of  us  jurists  had  luncheon  together,  and  I  ate,  of  all 
things  in  the  world — 

Well,  returning  to  my  office,  I  threw  myself  upon 
my  lounge,  and  took  up  a  law-book,  stood  it  upon  the 
bosom  of  my  shirt,  and  opened  it  at  the  Rule  in  Shel 
ley's  Case.  If  a  man  have  nothing  on  his  conscience, 
this  justly  celebrated  rule  will  put  him  to  sleep  in  ten 
minutes. 

19. 

Before  I  lay  down,  therefore,  I  locked  my  door ;  for 
the  spectacle  of  a  sleeping  lawyer  must  ever  be  a  pain 
ful  surprise  to  a  client. 

Dream  II. — [Canned  lobster.] 

Presently  I  heard  a  gentle  rap.  "  Come  in,"  said  I. 
And  in  there  stalked  a  most  surprising  figure. 

Now,  if  I  had  had  my  wits  about  me,  I  should  have 
known  it  was  a  dream ;  for  how  could  he  have  gotten 
b  .  2* 


18  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

in  with  the  door  locked  ?  So  I  suppose  I  must  have 
dreamed  that  it  was  not  a  dream.  At  any  rate,  there 
he  was.  A  Chinaman, — but  tall,  athletic,  and  gor 
geously  arrayed  in  brocaded  silks.  A  low  bow,  full  of 
grace  and  dignity.  I  rose  hastily,  without  either  the 
one  or  the  other. 

"  Ah  Ying  Kee,"  said  he,  with  another  bow,  at  the 
same  time  lightly  touching  his  left  breast  with  the  tips 
of  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand. 

"  Be  seated,  Mr.  Kee,"  said  I,  offering  him  a  chair. 

"  Thanks ;  I  have  the  honor  of  addressing  Mr.  Yang 
Kee  ?" 

The  afternoon  was  furiously  hot.  My  man  had  the 
chest  and  neck  of  Hercules.  So  I  contented  myself 
with  the  haughty  reply  that  my  name  was  Whacker. 

"  No  doubt, — no  doubt,"  replied  he,  with  a  courteous 
wave  of  the  hand.  "  In  a  general  way  you  are  quite 
right ;  but  for  the  special  purpose  of  my  visit  permit 
me  to  insist  that  you  are  Mr.  Yang  Kee." 

It  flashed  across  my  mind  that  I  was  dealing  with  a 
large  lunatic,  and  my  anger  cooled. 

"  Very  well,"  said  I,  "  if  you  will  have  it  so.  I  was 
never  called  a  Yankee  before,  that's  all." 

"  No  doubt ;  nor  have  you  the  least  idea  that  you  are 
one.  Still,  I  venture  to  remark — with  your  kind  per 
mission — that  such  is  practically  the  fact.  To  your 
eye  and  ear  there  are  differences  between  your  people 
and  those  of  Connecticut,  just  as  I  have  no  difficulty  in 
distinguishing  an  inhabitant  of  the  district  of  Hing 
Chang  from  a  dweller  on  the  banks  of  the  Fi  Fum. 
To  you  we  are  all  Chinese.  To  us,  Americans  are  all 
Yankees.  Orientals,  occidentals.  Let  Ying  Kee  stand 
for  the  one,  Yang  Kee  for  the  other." 

"  You  don't  say  Melican  man  ?'' 

"No;  I  am  not  a  washerwoman,"  replied  he,  with 
a  smile.  "  I  am  a  member  of  the  imperial  diplomatic 
corps,  and,  if  you  will  permit  me  to  say  so,  a  gentle 
man." 

I  gave  him  to  understand  that  he  was  more  than 
welcome.  (He  was  six  feet  two,  if  he  was  an  inch.) 

"  Thanks.     But  my  object  in  calling — " 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  19 

My  retainer  would  be  a  stiff  one,  never  fear — 

"I  call,  not  as  a  diplomat,  but  as  a  philosophei." 

I  sighed  the  sigh  of  a  jurisconsult. 

"  I  come  to  discuss  with  you  a  dream  which  I  under 
stand  you  have  done  us  Chinese  the  honor  to  dream 
about  us." 

I  had  not  mentioned  my  dream  to  a  soul.  How  had 
he  heard  of  it  ?  I  never  once  dreamt  that  1  was  dream 
ing  again. 

"  You,  too,  I  understand,  are  a  philosopher, — the 
greatest  philosopher,  if  common  fame  may  be  relied  on, 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth — " 

I  gave  my. hand  a  deprecatory  wave.  "Don't  men 
tion  it,"  said  I. 

"  Throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  Henrico 
County, — ITanraker,  as  the  natives  call  it." 

"  You  are  strong  on  geography." 

"  It  is  made  my  business  by  my  government  to  know 
America.  But  let's  to  our  discussion.  But  is  not  your 
office  rather  close  quarters  ?  Might  I  beg  you  to  walk 
with  me?" 

"  Where  shall  we  go?"  I  asked,  when  we  reached  the 
sidewalk. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  Eocketts  ?" 

"  Eocketts!"  I  exclaimed;  "you  are  strong  on  geog 
raphy  !" 

"  Eocketts  ?"  said  he,  with  a  bland  smile  ;  "  who  does 
not  know  that  it  is  the  port  of  Eichmond,  just  as  the 
Piraeus  was  that  of  Athens  ?" 

I  cannot  imagine  why  I  put  all  these  fine  phrases  in 
his  mouth,  unless  it  was  because  I  had  read  in  the 
papers,  not  long  before,  that  the  Parisians  pronounced 
the  manners  of  the  Chinese  embassy  perfect. 

And  here  I  may  remark,  for  the  benefit  of  science, 
that  though  the  thermometer  was  at  ninety  in  the 
shade,  I  was  not  conscious  of  the  heat  during  our  long 
walk.  Yet — and  it  shows  that  it  costs  a  fat  man  some 
thing  even  to  dream  of  toil — yet,  when  I  awoke,  my 
brow  looked  as  though  I  had  been  earning  my  bread, 
whereas  a  lawyer,  as  we  know,  confines  himself  to  earn 
ing  some  other  fellow's. 


20  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  And  now,  Mr.  Yang  Kee,"  said  he,  as  we  took  our 
seats  in  a  corner  of  the  docks  of  the  Old  Dominion  Line, 
"  and  now  for  this  very  remarkable  dream  of  yours ; 
and  permit  me  to  begin  by  observing  that,  the  central 
conception  of  your  dream  being  vicious,  the  whole  busi 
ness  falls  to  pieces." 

I  threw  my  eyebrows  into  the  form  of  a  couple  of 
interrogation-points. 

"  You  have  been  at  the  pains  of  dreaming  that  your 
people  are  to  conquer  mine  through  the  instrumen 
tality  of  armed  colonization.  Those  days,  when  entire 
nations — men,  women,  and  children — migrated,  sword 
in  hand,  are  over.  Instead  of  migration  we  have  emi 
gration, — the  movement  of  individuals  instead  of  the 
movement  of  tribes ;  in  place  of  the  Helvetii — " 

"Mr.  Kee,  your  learning  amazes  me!" 

"  It's  all  in  Confucius,"  said  he,  modestly.  "  Instead 
of  the  Helvetii  devastating  Gaul,  the  Swiss  waiter  lies 
in  ambush  against  the  small  change  of  Christendom. 
It  is  no  longer  warrior  against  warrior,  but  man  against 
man.  It  is  not  a  question  of — " 

Mr.  Kee  hesitated,  and  a  subtle  smile  played  over 
his  features. 

"  Go  on,"  said  I. 

"  These  are  the  days,  I  was  going  to  say,  of  the  sur 
vival  of  the  fittest,  rather  than  the  fightest." 

"Go  it,  Ying!"  cried  I;  at  the  same  time  fetching 
him  a  rouser  between  the  shoulders  with  my  rather 
heavy  hand.  In  my  enthusiasm  I  had  forgotten  his 
high  rank.  I  began  to  stammer  out  an  apology. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  said  he.  "  It  makes  me  know  that 
you  are  a  good  fellow,"  added  he,  at  the  same  time 
shaking  hands  with  himself,  after  the  manner  of  his 
people,  with  the  utmost  cordiality. 

I  do  not  suppose  that  a  native  ever  puns  without  a 
certain  sense  of  shame ;  but  I  confess  to  enjoying  it  in 
a  foreigner.  He  is  always  as. proud  as  a  boy  whistling 
his  first  tune. 

"  A  Caucasian  army  is  vastty  superior  to  a  Mongolian ; 
a  Caucasian  individual  vastly  inferior." 

I  smiled. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  21 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  "I  know  what  your  politicians  say; 
and  I  find  no  fault  with  them,  for  they  make  their 
living  by  saying — judicious  things.  The  Chinaman 
works  for  nothing  and  lives  upon  rice,  so  that  a  decent 
American  working-man  cannot  compete  with  him. 
Moreover,  he  persists  in  returning  to  China.  He  won't 
stay,  therefore  he  must  go.  Moreover,  a  Celestial  is  a 
heathen,  while  you,  dear  voters,  are  all  pious  and  good !" 

As  he  said  this,  accompanying  the  remark  with  a 
wink  of  Oriental  subtlety,  we  both,  with  a  common  im 
pulse,  burst  into  a  laugh  so  loud  that  a  large  rat,  which 
we  had  observed  as  he  cautiously  stole  up  towards 
a  broken  egg  which  lay  upon  the  dock,  precipitately 
scampered  off  and  down  into  his  hole. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  blame  your  statesmen.  They,  just  as 
others,  have  a  trade  by  which  wives  and  children  must 
be  fed  and  clothed.  Moreover," — and  leaning  forward 
and  confidentially  tapping  my  round  and  shapely  knee 
with  his  yellow  hand,  he  whispered, — "  moreover,  your 
statesmen  are  right  1"  and,  straightening  up,  he  paused, 
enjoying  my  surprise.  "  The  sentimentality  of  Poca- 
hontas,"  he  resumed,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  in  the 
direction  of  Jamestown,  "  was  the  ruin  of  her  people. 
Opecancanough  was  a  prophet  and  a  statesman.  Had  the 
Indians  slain  the  Europeans  as  fast  as  they  landed — " 

Just  then  the  rat  thrust  his  sharp  muzzle  out  of  his 
hiding-place  and  warily  swept  the  dock  with  his  jet- 
bead  eye.  Mr.  Kee  turned  upon  him  his  almond  oval 
and  smiled. 

"  I  thank  thee,  good  rat,"  he  cried ;  "  for  thou  art 
both  an  illustration  and  a  prophecy.  Hundreds  of 
years  ago,  the  blue  rat  held  sway  oji  this  continent,  while 
you  squeaked  unknown  in  the  mountains  of  Persia." 

"  'Tis  a  Norway  rat,"  I  put  in. 

"  No,"  said  he,  quietly,  "  he  is  of  Persian  origin,  and 
migrated  to  China  ages  ago,  during  the  reign,  to  be 
exact,  of  Ying  Lung  Fo.  You  will  find  it  laid  down  in 
Confucius,  in  his  great  work,  '  Bang  Lie  Yu,' — concern 
ing  all  things,  as  you  would  say  in  English."  • 

I  wonder  whether  he  likes  them  best  broiled  or 
fricasseed  ?  thought  I. 


22  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  The  real  Norway  rat  is  little  larger  than  a  field- 
mouse.  Your  term  Norway  rat  is  simply  a  populai 
corruption  of  gnaw-away  rat,  given  him  as  the  most 
strikingly  rodential  of  rodents." 

"To  be  found,  I  suppose,"  said  I,  "in  Confucius's 
lesser  work,  '  Fool  Hoo  Yu,'  or,  concerning  a  few  other 
things,  as  we  say  in  English." 

"  You  have  me  there !"  replied  he,  with  the  most 
winkish  of  winks.  "  But  we  digress.  Where  is  the 
blue  rat  now?  Perhaps  a  few  specimens  might  be 
found,  falling  back,  with  the  Eed  Men,  upon  the  Rocky 
Mountains.  And  where  will  the  Caucasian  race  be  three 
centuries  [his  very  figures]  hence  ?  Your  statesmen  are 
right,  but,  like  Opecancanough,  right  too  late.  Your 
race  is  doomed ;  not,  indeed,  to  extinction,  for  already 
the  despised  Mongol  begins  to  find  wives  among  you ; 
but  you  will  be  crossed  out  of  existence  by  a  superior 
and  prepotent  race.  Look  at  me,"  said  he,  giving  him 
self  a  slap  upon  his  broad  chest ;  "do  I  look  like  an 
inferior  specimen  of — there  he  comes  again !" 

Looking,  I  saw  the  rat,  stealthily  creeping  toward 
the  egg,  his  larboard  eye  covering  us,  his  starboard 
fixed  upon  a  cat  that  lay  dozing  in  the  shadow  of  a  post. 

"  There  he  is,  that  intruder  from  Persia,  and  he  will 
remain  with  you.  Housewives  may  poison,  here  and 
there,  a  score  of  them, — the  survivors  take  warning; 
pussy  may  lie  in  wait, — he  learns  to  avoid — even  to 
bully  her.  Terriers  may  dig  down  into  their  hiding- 
places, — they  will  bore  others.  An  incautious  youngster 
gets  his  leg  in  a  trap, — his  squeal  is  a  liberal  education 
to  the  entire  colony.  He  has  an  infinite  capacity  for 
adjusting  himself  to  bis  environment.  He  is  here  for 
good ;  and  so  is  the  Chinaman.  Congress  may  legislate 
against  him ;  it  will  be  a  Papal  bull  against  a  comet. 
Mobs  may  assail  him,  trade-unions  damn  him ;  but  the 
Chinaman  will  not  go.  And  myriads  more,  the  sur 
vivors  of  ages  of  a  fearful  struggle  for  existence  at  home, 
will  pour  in.  He  will  not  go.  He  will  come ;  and  be 
tween  Ying  Kee  and  Yang  Kee  the  fittest  will  survive." 

"  Westward,"  began  I,  "  westward  the  star  of  em 
pire — " 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  23 

"  Scat  I"  cried  he,  leaping  from  his  seat. 

Our  rat,  having,  at  last,  after  many  advances  and  re 
treats,  secured  the  egg,  was  making  off  with  it  to  his 
hole,  when  the  cat,  awakening,  sprang  after  him.  Down 
he  plunged  into  his  hole,  bearing  off  the  egg,  but  leaving 
an  inch  of  his  tail  under  pussy's  paws. 

"Scat!"  cried  I, rushing  to  the  rat's  assistance, — and 
bump !  I  fell  upon  the  floor. 

Ah  Ying  had  vanished.  My  door  was  still  locked. 
It  had  all  been  a  dream. 

20. 

No,  my  boy,  I  am  not  a  candidate  for  the  Presidency. 
This  is  no  hook  baited  with  the  Chinese  question.  My 
object  is  merely  to  explain  how  you  happen  to  have 
almond  eyes.  And  if  you  don't,  you  will  understand 
that  it  is  no  fault  of  mine.  The  Welsh  rarebit  dream 
overcame  the  canned  lobster  vision, — that's  all.  And 
having  made  this  clear  to  you,  as  I  hope,  the  time  has 
come  for  me  to  say  a  few  words  about  myself. 

31. 

When  this  book  shall  be,  on  your  twenty-first  birth 
day,  laid  beside  your  plate,  at  breakfast,  by  your 
thoughtful  yellow  father,  I  have  no  doubt  that  you 
will  ask  him,  before  even  you  begin  to  play  your  chop 
sticks,  who  wrote  it.  Now,  what  will  it  avail  you  for 
him  to  say  that  it  was  written  by  John  Bouche 
Whacker,  of  the  Richmond  bar?  Who  was  John 
Bouche  Whacker  ?  And  that  question  means  (at  least 
since  Mr.  Charles  Darwin  wrote)  who  was  the  father 
and  who  the  mother  of  J.  B.  W. ;  and  the  father  and 
mother  of  this  pair,  and  so  on,  and  so  on. 

Now,  I  suppose  that  if  I  were  to  push  the  inquiry  into 
prehistoric  times,  it  would  turn  out  that  I  was  related 
to  the  entire  Indo-Germanic  race ;  but  I  shall  content 
myself  with  indicating  to  you  the  three  chief  strains  of 
blood  which  mingle  in  my  veins,  leaving  to  you,  as  you 
read  chapter  after  chapter,  this  entertaining  ethnologi 
cal  puzzle :  Who  spoke  there  ?  The  Dane  ?  or  was  it 
the  Saxon  ?  As  to  my  Huguenot  blood,  there  will  b« 


24  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

no  hiding  that.     It  will  always  be  on  fire,  at  the  merest 
suggestion  of  a  dogma  of  theology. 

2S. 

I. — THE   WHACKERS. 

Every  school-boy  knows  that,  no  sooner  had  their 
brave  Queen  Boadicea  perished,  than  the  Britons  lost 
all  stomach  for  fighting,  and  gave  themselves  up  wholly 
to  roast  beef  and  plum  pudding.  Nor  is  it  a  secret, 
that  when  the  Eoman  legions,  to  whom  they  had 
learned  to  look  for  protection,  were  withdrawn  from 
the  island,  the  Picts  and  Scots,  grown  weary  of  oat 
meal,  began  to  trouble  the  more  sumptuous  feasts  of 
their  neighbors.  Remonstrances  proving  fruitless,  they 
sent  for  the  Jutes  and  the  Saxons  and  the  Angles  (so 
called,  respectively,  from  a  valuable  plant,  a  fine  variety 
of  wool,  and  a  singular  devotion  to  fishing).  These 
sturdy  braves  crossed  the  water  with  their  renowned 
battle-axes,  as  every  school-boy  knows.  But  what  even 
our  very  learned  young  friend  does  not,  perhaps,  sus 
pect,  is  that,  along  with  Hengist  and  Horsa,  there 
sailed,  on  this  historical  occasion,  two  twin  brothers, 
named  respectively  Ethelbert  and  Alfred  Whacker, — or 
Hvaecere,  as  they  themselves  would  have  spelled  it, 
had  they  thought  spelling,  of  any  sort,  worth  their 
heroic  while;  which,  haply,  they  did  not.  Now,  from 
these  twins  I  am  lineally  descended,  as  you  shall  see 
duly  set  forth  in  the  Whacker  Records,  herewith  trans 
mitted.  You  will  find  in  these  family  annals,  too,  some 
details  not  sufficiently  elaborated,  perhaps,  in  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  Chronicle,  and  other  authorities  for  this  period. 
There  is  the  barest  allusion,  for  instance,  to  the  brave 
death  of  Ethelbert  Hvaecere,  the  eldest  of  the  twins, 
which  occurred  as  follows : 

33. 

"When  the  English  (for  such  recent  historians  have 
shown  that  they  were,  and  not  Germans,  as  they  them 
selves,  absurdly  enough,  supposed  themselves  to  be) — 
when  the  English  -reached  the  Wall  of  Severus,  they 
found  that  earth- work  lined,  for  miles,  with  Picts  and 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  25 

Scots.  So,  at  least,  they  were  named  in  Pinnock's 
Goldsmith's  England,  which  I  read  at  school.  So, 
too,  you  will  find  they  are  called  in  the  Whacker  Rec 
ords.  Recent  historical  research,  however,  has  demon 
strated  that  the  so-called  Picts  were,  in  reality,  painted 
Scotchmen,  while  the  alleged  Scots  were  neither  more 
nor  less  than  Irishmen.  And  I  must  confess  that  when 
I  re-read  the  Whacker  Records  by  these  modern  lights,  I 
was  ashamed  that  I  had  not  made  this  discovery  myself. 
It  would  appear  that  the  west  of  Scotland  was  origi 
nally  settled  by  the  Irish ;  and  that  those  who  remained 
at  home  took  so  lively  an  interest  in  their  emigrated 
brethren,  that  whenever  they  got  news  of  a  wake  or 
other  shindy  that  was  brewing  beyond  the  Channel, 
they  would  shoot  across  in  their  canoes,  or  else — so  sur 
prisingly  low  were  the  tides  in  those  simple  days — 
wade  across  and  join  in  the  fray ;  as  they  did  on  the 
present  occasion. 

34. 

You  and  I  have  no  special  interest  in  Hengist's  attack 
on  the  tattooed  Scotchmen  on  the  enemy's  left ;  for  the 
two  Hvaeceres  fought  under  Horsa,  on  our  left. 

And  things  looked  so  strange  to  Horsa,  as  he  ap 
proached  the  enemy,  that  this  wily  captain  called  a 
halt  and  sent  word  to  Hengist  to  delay  the  attack  till 
he  could  look  into  matters  a  little.  And  this  is  what  he 
observed,  standing  a  little  in  front  of  his  line,  with  the 
two  Hvaeceres  (who  constituted  his  staff)  by  his  side. 

In  the  first  place,  the  weapons  which  these  so-called 
Scots  were  waving  above  their  heads  were  not  clay 
mores,  as  he  had  been  led  to  expect.  Instead,  they 
brandished  stout,  blackish,  knotted  clubs,  and  to  the 
accompaniment,  not  of  the  shrill  bagpipe  or  the  rhyth 
mic  slogan,  but  with  fierce  and  discordant  cries.  One 
thing  he  remarked  with  grim  satisfaction.  Standing 
in  dense  masses,  and  whirling  their  clubs  with  more 
fervor  than  care,  it  constantly  happened  that  a  neigh 
boring  head  got  a  tap;  and  no  sooner  had  this  oc 
curred  (giving  forth  a  singularly  solid  sound)  than  it 
instantly  set  up  a  local  internecine  fracas  of  such 
severity  that,  at  times,  considerable  spaces  of  the  wall 
B  "  3 


26  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.       • 

were  denuded  of  defenders;  who,  tumbling  into  the 
transmural  ditch,  fought  fiercely  there.  In  a  few  min 
utes,  however,  they  would  reappear,  smiling,  as  though 
they  had  been  seeing  fun  of  some  sort,  over  there  be 
yond  the  wall.  Once,  indeed,  one  of  the  combatants, 
— a  little  bow-legged  fellow, — bringing  down  his  shil- 
laleh  (which  is  Celtic  for  hickory)  with  a  sounding 
thwack  upon  the  bare  head  of  a  burly  opponent, 
knocked  him  down  the  slope  of  the  wall  on  our  side, 
and,  standing  upon  the  edge  of  the  wall,  with  his 
thumb  to  his  nose,  jeei'ed  at  him. 

"Who  hit  Maginnis?"  cried  he  in  Gaelic;  and  even 
the  Maginnises  roared  with  laughter.  Nay,  grim 
Horsa,  too,  was  observed  to  smile ;  for  he  knew  tbeir 
language  well,  having  learned  it  during  his  many  in 
cursions  into  Gaul. 

But,  just  at  this  moment,  Hengist  riding  up,  and 
seeing  our  men  seated  on  the  ground,  and  laughing,  as 
though  at  a  show,  flew  into  a  rage  ;  for,  like  his  mater 
nal  uncle,  Ariovistus,  he  was  of  an  ungovernable  tem 
per;  and  asked  his  brother  Horsa  what  in  the  Walhalla 
he  meant.  "  Do  you  call  this  business  ?"  added  he, — fo~ 
he  was  an  Anglo-Saxon. 

"I  am  giving  them  time  to  knock  out  each  other's 
brains,"  replied  Horsa,  in  his  slow-spoken  way. 

"  Then  will  you  wait  till  doomsday,"  replied  the 
humorous  monarch ;  and  galloping  back  to  his  lines, 
well  pleased  with  his  sally,  he  ordered  an  immediate 
advance  upon  the  pictured  Macgregors  in  his  front. 

We  charged  too.  (I  have  read  the  account  so  often 
that  I  cannot  help  thinking  I  was  there.)  And  it  was 
then  that  Horsa  discovered  the  meaning  of  a  reddish 
line  along  the  top  of  the  wall  in  his  front.  Observing 
no  signs  of  missile  weapons  among  the  enemy,  he  had 
flattered  himself  that  he  would  easily  have  the  mastery 
over  them,  with  his  terrible  battle-axes  against  their 
shillalehs.  But  when  we  got  within  thirty  feet  of  them 
(not  before)  they  stooped  as  'one  man  and  rose  again. 
An  instant  more  and  we  thought  that  Thor  was  raining 
his  thunder-bolts  upon  our  shields.  Our  men  went 
down  by  hundreds.-  A  reddish  mist  filled  the  air. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  27 

'Twas  brick-dust  1 

"With  such  prodigious  force  did  they  hurl  their  na 
tional  weapon  (shamrock  is  the  pretty  name  of  it  in 
the  Gael)  against  our  shields,  that,  where  it  did  not  go 
through,  it  was  reduced  to  powder. 

We  stood  a  long  while,  stunned,  blinded,  bewildered  ; 
Buffering  heavily,  doing  nothing  in  reply.  At  last  there 
was  a  slight  lull  in  the  storm  of  missiles  ;  for  as  they 
had  each  brought  over  but  a  peck  of  ammunition,  in 
their  corduroys,  the  more  impetuous  among  them  were 
beginning  to  run  short  ;  and  it  was  then  that  our  sturdy 
ancestor  showed  the  stuff  he  was  made  of.  Assuming 
command  (for  Horsa,  with  Alfred  Hvaecere  by  his  side, 
lay  insensible  upon  the  grass),  "  Men,"  cried  he,  "  why 
do  we  stand  here  ?  Kemember  Quintilius  Varus  and  his 
legions  !  To  your  axes  !  to  your  axes  I"  And  the  whole 
line  staggered  forward,  with  Ethelbert  well  in  front 
and  bearing  down  upon  Maginnis.  (The  same,  —  though 
his  mother  would  scarcely  have  known  him,  with  that 
blue-black  bulge  in  his  forehead.)  And  it  is  mainly 
from  an  observation  that  Maginnis  made  at  this  junc 
ture  that  I  am  inclined  to  give  in  my  adhesion  to  the 
hypothesis  of  the  later  historians,  who  claim  that  these 
men  were  not  Scots. 

"  Erin  go  bragh  !"  cried  the  undaunted  chieftain, 
reaching  down  into  his  trousers  for  a  reserve  brick,  —  • 
an  heirloom,  —  black,  glistening,  hard  as  flint,  mother 
of  wakes— 

"  Thor  smash  thee  !"  cried  the  Hvaecere  ;  and  toss 
ing  away  his  shield,  he  lifted  aloft,  in  both  hands,  his 
mighty  axe.  It  trembled  in  the  air,  ready  to  descend. 

Too  late,  —  for  the  brick  of  Maginnis  landed  square 
between  the  hero's  eyes,  —  and  you  and  I  had  to  be 
descended  from  the  younger  brother. 


The  Whackers,  therefore,  are  not  ancestors  that  one 
needr  blush  to  own.*    But  I  have  not  meant  to  boast. 

*  I  sometimes  wonder  how  some  people  can  plume  themselves  on  their 
descent,  though  able  to  trace  it  back  only  to  the  Norman  Conquest. 

J.  B.  W. 


28  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

Else  had  I  been  unworthy  of  them.  They  were  Anglo- 
Saxon  ;  and  when  I  have  said  that,  I  have  said  that 
they  had  a  certain  sturdy  love  of  truth,  for  which  this 
race  is  conspicuous.  And  so  this  book  may  be  absurd, 
or  even  wicked,  nay,  worst  of  all,  dull ;  but  one  thing 
you  may  rely  upon.  Every  word  in  it  will  be  true. 

36. 

II. — THE  DANICHESTER8. 

It  did  not  seem  so  while  I  was  writing  it,  but  now 
that  my  book  is  finished,  it  strikes  me  as  one  of  the 
oddest  works  I  have  ever  read.  You  can  never  tell 
what  is  coming  next.  Even  to  me  it  was  a  series  of 
surprises.  Eead  the  first  ten  lines  of  any  chapter. 
Now  read  the  last  ten.  Heavens,  how  did  he  get 
there!  I  seem  never  to  know  whither,  or  how  far  I 
am  going.  It  has  been  the  same  with  me  all  my  life. 
Often,  as  a  boy,  I  have  set  out  for  a  neighbor's  on  a 
mule,  and  not  gone  all  the  way. 

Another  singular  trait  about  this  book  is  what  I 
must  be  allowed  to  call  its  unconscious  humor.  A 
strange  thing  to  say  about  one's  own  book ;  but  some 
how,  when  I  am  reading  it,  I  can't  shake  off  the  im 
pression  that  some  other  fellow  wrote  it,  or  that  I 
wrote  it  in  my  sleep, — so  many  things  do  I  find  in  it 
which  I  could  almost  swear  I  never  thought  of  in  my 
life.  And  there  are  a  dozen  passages  in  it  where  1 
slapped  my  thigh,  crying  out,  Good !  Good !  And 
more  than  once  I  caught  myself  saying,  By  Jove,  I 
should  like  to  know  the  old  boy  who  wrote  this ! 

Yet,  never  in  my  life  was  I  more  serious  than  when 
I  sat  down  to  write  this  work;  for  it  was  the  solemn, 
theological,  Huguenot  molecules  of  my  brain  that  set 
me  to  writing ;  and  the  book  was  to  be  too  grave  to 
bring  a  ripple  to  the  beak  of  a  Laughing  Jackass, — that 
jovial  kingfisher  whose  professional  hilarity  cheers  tho 
lone  Australian  shepherd. 

Now,  since  man — as  every  college-boy  knows — and 
it  is  well  to  know  something — since  man  is  but  the 
sum  of  his  ancestors  modified  by  his  environment, 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  29 

whence  have  I  derived  this  trait  of  mine,  this  uncon 
scious  humor, — the  gift,  that  is,  of  making  people  laugh 
without  intending  it?  Many  persons  have  it,  but 
where  did  /'get  it  ? 

Not  from  the  business-like  "Whackers,  surely.  Still 
less  from  the  Pope-hating  Bouches.  I  must  derive  it 
from  my  Danichester  blood.  From  this  source,  too,  I 
must  get  another  characteristic, — that  of  being  sad 
when  others  are  gay.  In  the  midst  of  piping  and 
fiddling  I  sometimes  ask  my  heart  what  is  the  use  of 
it  all.  And  ofttimes,  while  I  have  stood  smiling  as  I 
looked  upon  a  group  of  merry  children  at  play,  I  could 
feel  the  tears  trickling  back  upon  my  heart. 

Family  traits  are  generally  modified  (Darwin,  passim) 
from  generation  to  generation.  Thus,  the  grandson 
of  a  painter  will  be  a  musician,  perhaps ;  and  many 
literary  people  are  sons  of  clergymen.  There  is  simi 
larity  rather  than  identity.  And  so  this  vein  of  sad 
ness,  which  lies  so  deep  in  me  that  few  or  none  of  my 
friends  have  ever  suspected  its  existence,  crops  out  in 
one  of  my  progenitors.  I  allude  to  Olaf  Danichester, 
Gent.,  whose  daughter  Gunhilda  was  married  to  John 
"Whacker,  merchant,  London,  in  the  seventeenth  year 
of  the  reign  of  glorious  Queen  Bess. 

Now,  from  all  accounts,  this  ancestor  of  ours  had  a 
most  extraordinary  way  of  saying  things  that  no  ono 
else  would  ever  have  thought  of;  added  to  which  was 
the  singularity  that,  after  he  had  run  through  the  for 
tune  brought  to  him  by  his  second  wife,-he  was  never 
known  to  smile.  And  it  is  no  secret  to  the  Whacker 
connection  (though  not  generally  known  in  literary 
circles)  that  the  immortal  Shakespeare,  who  often  sat 
with  him  over  a  cold  cut  and  a  tankard  of  ale  in  the 
parlor  of  his  prosperous  son-in-law  (J.  W.),  has  em 
balmed  him  for  posterity  in  the  melancholy  Jaques. 

Now,  the  difference  between  Olaf  Danichester  and 
myself  is  simply  that  he  gave  utterance  to  his  sad 
thoughts,  while  I  keep  mine  to  myself.  I  am  a  mere 
modification  of  him,  just  as  he  was  of  his  valiant  pro 
genitor,  Vagn  Akason,  the  Yiking.  This  Yagn,  though 
an  eminent  waterman  in  his  day,  did  not  come  over  to 

3* 


30  THE  STORY   OF  DON  MIFF. 

America  in  the  Mayflower, — chiefly  because  he  was 
killed  centuries  before  she  sailed,  but  in  part,  also,  be 
cause  he  felt  no  wish  to  make  others  worship  God  after 
his  fashion ;  which  was  a  very  poor  fashion,  I  fear,  from 
the  account  given  of  him  in  our  -Records.  At  any  rate, 
he  was  a  marvellously  handsome  fellow,  this  Viking 
bold ;  and  when  he  went  forth  to  battle,  a  storm  of 
yellow  hair,  as  Motherwell  says,  floated  over  his  broad 
shoulders, — so  that  he  looked  for  all  the  world  like 
Lohengrin.  But  I  suspect  he  was  not  the  kind  of  man 
we  should  select,  at  the  present  day,  as  superintendent 
of  a  Sunday-school.  For  one  thing,  he  was  a  most 
omnipotous  drinker;  nor  should  I  ever  have  admitted 
that  I  had  a  drop  of  his  blood  in  my  veins  had  it  not 
been  necessary  for  me,  as  a  Darwinian,  to  account  for 
my  unconscious  humor.  And  if  these  words  savor  of 
conceit,  let  us  call  it  my  trick  of  saying  and  doing  the 
most  unexpected  things.  Hear  the  account  of  the 
death  of  this  brave  young  sea-rover,  and  see  whether  I 
do  not  come  honestly  by  this  trait : 

He,  with  seventeen  of  his  companions,  had  been  cap 
tured,  and  had  been  made,  according  to  the  custom  of 
those  rude  days,  to  straddle  a  large  log,  one  behind  the 
other,  with  their  hands  tied  behind  their  backs.  Up 
came,  then,  the  victor,  Jarl  Hakon  (after  a  leisurely 
breakfast  of  pork  chops),  to  strike  off  their  heads. 
This,  to  us,  seems  unkind;  but  having  one's  head 
chopped  off  was  such  a  matter  of  course  in  those  days 
that  no  one  ever  thought  for  an  instant  of  minding  it 
in  the  least.  Give  and  take  was  the  way  they  looked 
at  it. 

But  brave  as  these  men  were  in  the  presence  of  the 
headsman,  they  shuddered  at  the  very  thought  of  a 
barber.  They  gloried  in  their  long  hair.  To  lose  their 
heads  was  an  incident  of  war ;  to  lose  their  locks  a  dis 
grace  which  followed  them  even  into  the  next  world. 
According  to  a  superstition  of  theirs,  a  Sea-Cavalier 
who  lost  his  curls  just  before  parting  with  his  head 
was  doomed  to  be  a  Roundhead  ghost  and  a  laughing 
stock  throughout  eternity. 

Up  strode  the  fierce  headsman,  Tharkell  Loire,  and 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF,  31 

bade  the  captive  Viking  lean  forward  and  lay  his 
golden  hair  upon  the  log.  He  obeyed,  but  held  his 
calm,  sky-blue  eye  upon  the  glittering  axe,  and,  quick 
as  a  flash,  as  it  descended,  covered  his  fair  curls  with 
his  fairer  neck.  And  when  his  seventeen  comrades, 
who  sat  there  waiting  their  turn,  saw  how  their  wily 
captain  had  outwitted  their  enemy,  and  how  he  raged 
thereat,  they  roared  with  Sea-King  laughter. 

37. 
III. — THE   BOUCHE8. 

Every  school-boy  knows  what  the  Edict  of  Nantes 
was ;  but  philosophers  differ  as  to  what  was  the  effect 
of  its  revocation  upon  the  fortunes  of  France.  For  us 
it  is  enough  to  know  that  Louis  XIY.,  by  recalling  it, 
drove  to  Virginia  our  ancestor  John  Bouche,  whose 
daughter,  Elizabeth,  completely  captivated  my  great 
etc.  grandfather,  Tom  Whacker,  by  her  pretty  French 
accent  and  trim  French  figure.  She  was  good  and  wise, 
too ;  but  the  rascal  never  found  that  out  till  after  he 
married  her.  It  must  be  owing  to  the  Danichester 
strain,  I  suppose,  that  the  "Whackers,  so  sensible  in 
many  ways,  have  always  sought  grace  and  beauty  in 
their  wives,  rather  than  piety  and  learning ;  and  I  sup 
pose  I  shall  be  no  wiser  than  my  fathers  when  my  time 
comes. 

This  Huguenot  cross  gave  the  old  "Whacker  stock  a 
twist  towards  theology.  Two  of  the  sons  of  Thomas 
and  Elizabeth  took  orders,  much  to  the  surprise  of  their 
father,  who  used  to  say  that  Reverend  Whacker  had  a 
queer  sound  to  his  ear.  So  prepotent,  in  fact',  has  the 
Huguenot  strain  become,  that  a  Whacker  is  no  longer 
a  Whacker.  In  the  old  days  our  e3res  were  as  blue  as 
the  sky ;  now  they  are  as  black  as  sloes.  Once  we  were 
reserved  and  silent ;  now — but  enough.  As  for  myself, 
it  has  often  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  all  Bouche, — 
Bouche  et  prceterea  nihil, — as  the  ancient  Romans  put 
it  in  their  compact  way. 

Needless  to  say,  therefore,  that  this  book  was  to  in 
struct  and  edify  you.  You  may  see  that  from  the  very 
first  sentence  of  it  all  that  I  wrote : 


32  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"And,  now  in  conclusion,  my  dear  boy,  if  you  rise 
from  the  perusal  of  this  work  a  wiser  and  better  man, 
the  direct  author  of  the  book  and  the  indirect  author 
of  your  being  will  feel  amply  repaid  for  all  his  toil." 

Such  were  my  intentions.  And  now  read  the  book, 
as  it  stands.  Heavens  and  earth,  was  there  ever  such 
another!  Alas,  those  Danichester  molecules,  what 
have  they  not  made  me  say!  Page  after  page,  and 
chapter  after  chapter,  in  which  I  defy  even  a  mouse  to 
pick  up  a  crumb  of  edification.  Chapter  after  chapter 
of  feasting,  fiddling,  dancing,  courting, — roast  turkeys, 
broiled  oysters,  hams  seven  years  old.  Bowls  full  of 
egg-nogg,  pipes  full  of  tobacco,  students  full  of  apple- 
toddy  ,^-every  thing  to  make  a  man  feel  good,  nothing 
to  make  him  be  good.  For  the  heathen  Viking  in  me 
speaks ! 

Yet  he  does  not  hold  entire -sway.  But  as  we  sit — 
you  and  I  and  the  friends  you  shall  presently  make — 
sit  joyously  picnicking  in  a  fair  wood — more  than  once 
the  trees  above  us,  as  you  shall  find,  will  seem  to  moan, 
as  they  bend  before  the  gentle  breeze.  'Tis  the  spirit 
of  the  melancholy  Jaques,  perched  like  a  raven,  there. 
To  him  a  sob  lies  lurking  in  every  laugh ;  and  his  weary 
eyes  can  never  look  upon  a  dimple — a  dimple,  smile- 
wrought  in  damask  cheek — but  they  see  therein  the 
Rheen  of  coming  tears. 

38. 

Here  I  am,  then,  Whacker-Danichester-Bouche. 
[Anglice,  Bush.]  And,  since  man  is  but  the  epitome  of 
his  ancestry,  what  kind  of  an  author 'should  result? 
Chemists  tells  us  that  it  is  not  so  much  the  molecules 
as  their  arrangement.  Let  us  try  this:  Danichester- 
Bush-Whacker, — so  what  else  could  I  be  but  a 

Humoristico-sentimental  Bushwhacker  ? 

And  such  I  am,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  at  your  ser 
vice  I 

39. 

And  a  Bushwhacker,  beloved  scion,  you  will  rightly 
divine  to  be  one  who  whacks  from  behind  a  bush.  But 


THE  STORF  OF  DON  MIFF.  33 

that  this  is  so  is  (and  that  you  would  never  guess)  one 
of  those  whimsical  accidents  of  which  philology  points 
out  so  many  examples.  Bushwhackers  no  more  got 
their  name  in  the  way  the  name  suggests  than  your 
Shank-high  fowls  got  theirs  from  length  of  limb. 

How  they  did  get  it  I  must  now  explain.  Not  that  I 
may  vaingloriously  show  off  my  rather  quaint  and  curi 
ous  philologic  lore.  I  have  a  better  motive.  The  word 
has  its  origin  in  an  incident  in  our  family  history ;  an 
incident,  too,  of  such  interest  that  it  gave  rise  to  a 
poem,  famous  in  its  day,  beginning,  "  All  quiet  along 
the  Potomac  to-night," — the  author  of  which  will  never 
be  known.  For  three  hundred  and  eleven  people 
(two  hundred  and  ninety-nine  women  and  twelve  men) 
went  before  justices  of  the  peace,  when  it  began  to 
make  a  noise  in  the  world,  and  made  oath  that  they 
wrote  it.  Which  shows,  among  other  things,  that  there 
is  no  lack  of  justices  of  the  peace  in  this  country.  But 
let's  to  the  incident. 

3O. 

You  must  know,  then,  that  the  Bouche  connection 
is  as  numerous  as  it  is  respectable.  Hardly  a  county 
in  Virginia  where  you  shall  not  find  a  colony  of  them. 
And  as  a  rule  they  are  genteel  folk,  mingling  with  the 
best.  But  (for  I  shall  not  conceal  it  from  you)  every 
now  and  then  one  stumbles  upon  a  shoot  of  the  original 
stem  that  is  fallenjnto  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf.  Still, 
th'e  motto  with  us'is,  that  a  Bouche  is  a  Bouche,  even 
though  he  be  run  down  at  the  heel.  But  our  clannish- 
ness  has  its  limits.  We  draw  the  line  at  the  spelling 
of  the  name, — draw  it  sharply  between  Bouche  and 
Bush.  Still,  I  happen  to  have  heard  my  grandfather 
say  that,  though  old  Jim  Bush  did  not  spell  the  name 
after  the  aristocratic  Huguenot  fashion,  his  father  be 
fore  him  did ;  and  that,  consequently,  he  was  one  of 
us. 

After  all,  he  was  by  no  means  a  bad  fellow.     It  covers 

his  case  better  to  say  that  he  was  not  profitable  unto 

himself.     He  was,  in  fact,  a  kind  of  Eip  Van  Winkle, 

.  whose   hands,  though   he  was  desperately  poor   and 


34  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

owned  a  farm  of  a  few  acres,  were  more  familiar  with 
the  rifle  than  the  handles  of  a  plough.  For  miles 
around  his  tumble-down  old  house  he  and  his  gun  were 
a  terror  to  game  of  all  kinds ;  and  it  was  believed  that, 
of  squirrels  especially,  he  had  killed  more,  in  his  day, 
than  any  man  within  miles  of  Alexandria.  Nor  were 
there  lacking  those  who  maintained  that  upon  a  dozen 
of  these  edible  rodents,  as  a  substratum,  he  could 
build  up  a  Brunswick  stew  such  as — but  I  dined  with 
him  once,  and  feel  no  need  of  outside  testimony.  (I 
suppose  it  was  the  French  streak  in  him.  He  spelt 
himself  Bush,  but  blood  will  tell.) 

"  The  main  secret,  Jack"  (everybody  calls  me  Jack, 
no  matter  how  poor  and  humble  they  may  be ;  besides, 
he  was  a  cousin), — "  the  main  secret  is  that  I  put  in 
the  brains.  When  I  was  a  green  hand  with  the  rifle  I 
used  to  knock  their  heads  off;  and  monstrous  proud  I 
was,  I  remember,  of  never  touching  their  bodies.  Now 
I  save  their  brains  by  just  wiping  off  their  smellers." 

Yes,  my  son,  he  was  an  out-at-the-elbows  Bouche, 
and  his  language  was  low.  But  let  us  not  sneer  at  him. 
He  could  do  two  things  well.  And  how  many  of  us 
can  do  one !  For  my  own  part,  when  I  look  at  myself 
and  then  at  my  brother-men,  I  cannot  find  it  in  my 
heart  to  despise  the  lowliest  of  them  all.  The  scornful 
alone  do  I  scorn.  And  when  I  see  a  little  two-legged 
puff-ball  strutting  along,  with  its  nose  in  the  air,  I  long 
for  old  Jim  Bush  and  his  rifle,  that  he  might  serve  it 
as  he  did  the  squirrels. 

31. 

Old  Jim's  ramshackle  house  stood  in  the  zone  which 
lay  between  the  Northern  and  Southern  armies  during 
the  winter  following  the  first  battle  of  Manassas,  or 
Bull  Run.  He  was  not  young  enough  to  shoulder  his 
musket,  having  been  born  in  the  year  1800.  Besides, 
rheumatism  had  laid  its  heavy  hand  upon  his  left  knee. 
As  scouting  parties  of  the  enemy  frequently  came  un 
comfortably  near  old  Jim's  little  farm,  he,  dreading 
capture,  spent  most  of  his  time  in  the  dense  woods 
which  surrounded  his  house,  creeping  back,  at  nightfall, 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  35 

beneath  its  friendly  roof.  True,  the  roof  leaked  here 
and  there,  but  it  was  all  he  had,  and  he  loved  it. 

One  day  the  enemy  pushed  forward  their  picket-line 
as  far  as  his  house,  and  established  a  station  there.  It 
was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  they  came,  and  old  Jim, 
who  had  already  returned  for  the  night,  had  barely 
time,  on  hearing  the  clatter  of  hoofs  at  his  very  door, 
to  rush  out  by  the  back  way  and  tumble  into  the  dense 
jungle  of  a  ravine  which  skirted  his  little  garden. 
Very  naturally,  to  a  Bedouin  like  old  Bush,  the  idea  of 
being  immured  in  a  noisome  dungeon,  as  had  happened 
to  some  of  his  less  wily  neighbors,  was  full  of  horrors  ; 
and  crawling  into  the  densest  part  of  the  thicket,  he 
crouched  there  pale  and  hardl}'  breathing,  lest  the  men 
whose  voices  he  heard  so  clearly  sbould  hear  him. 

Old  Joe — for,  while  Jim  differed  from  Diogenes  in 
many  other  ways,  he  was  like  him  in  this,  that  he 
owned  a  solitary  slave — old  Joe  they  had  caught.  No 
doubt  the  sizzling  (the  dictionary-man  will  please  put 
the  word  in  his  next  edition) — the  sizzling  of  the  bacon 
in  his  frying-pan  dulled  his  hearing ;  and  so  his  knees 
smote  together,  when,  raising  his  eyes  to  the  darkened 
door,  he  saw  a  Federal  soldier  standing  upon  the 
threshold. 

"Sarvant,  mahsterl"  stammered  he  through  his 
chattering  teeth. 

In  order  to  explain  his  terror  to  readers  of  the  pres 
ent  day,  I  must  beg  them  to  recall  the  fact  that  Lincoln 
had  issued  a  proclamation  that  the  North  had  no  in 
tention  or  wish  to  overthrow  slavery  in  the  South. 
"  We  come  to  save  the  Union, — dash  the  niggers!"  was 
the  angry  and  universal  reply  of  the  Federal  soldiers 
when  our  women  jeered  them  on  their  supposed  mis 
sion.  Hence  the  phrase  "  wicked  and  causeless  rebel 
lion,"  without  which  no  loyal  editor  could  get  on  with 
the  least  comfort  in  those  early  days  of  the  war. 

Just  as  a  poetess,  nowadays,  rends  her  ringlets  till 
she  finds  a  way  of  working  "gloaming"  into  her  little 
sonnet. 

The  abolitionists, — to  praise  them  is  the  toughest  task 
my  conscience  ever  put  upon  me, — though  they  brought 


36  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

on  the  war,  were  not  war-men.  They  honestly  ab 
horred  slavery,  and  had  the  courage  of  their  convic 
tions.  They  would  have  let  the  "  erring  sisters  depart 
in  peace"  so  as  to  rid  the  Union  of  the  blot  of  African 
servitude,  and  deserve  such  honor  as  is  due  to  earnest 
men.  Later  on,  they  changed  their  position  ;  but  mid 
dle-aged  men  will  remember  what  their  views  were  at 
the  opening  of  the  struggle. 

Not  recognizing,  therefore,  a  friend  in  the  "  Yankee" 
who  stood  in  his  door-way,  the  glitter  of  his  bayonet 
was  disagreeable  to  old  Joe's  eyes,  and  the  point  of  it 
looked  so  sharp  that  it  made  his  ribs  ache ;  and  his 
knees  trembled  beneath  him.  For  old  Joe  was  not  by 
nature  bloodthirsty,  nor  longed  for  gore, — least  of  all 
the  intimate  and  personal  gore  of  Joseph  Meekins. 

"Sarvant,  mahster!" 

Perhaps  old  Jim's  naturally  serene  temper  was  ruf 
fled,  at  the  moment,  by  the  fact  that  the  fangs  of  a 
blackberry-bush,  under  which  he  had  forced  his  head, 
had  fastened  themselves  upon  his  right  ear.  At  any 
rate,  I  am  afraid  he  muttered,  sotto  voce,  an  oath  at 
hearing  his  old  slave  and  friend  call  a  Yankee  master. 

"Sarvant,  mahster!" 

Old  Joe's  form  was  bent  low,  his  teeth  chattered,  his 
eyes  rolled  in  terror  like  those  of  a  bullock  dragged  up 
to  the  slaughter-post  and  the  knife. 

The  sight  of  a  man's  face  distorted  with  abject  fear 
has  always  filled  me  with  deep  compassion ;  but  I  be 
lieve  it  arouses  in  the  average  man  (which  I  am  far 
from  claiming  to  be)  a  feeling  of  pitiless  scorn. 

"Sarvant,  mahster!"  chattered  old  Joe,  writhing 
himself  behind  the  kitchen  table.  The  soldier  was  an 
average  man. 

"  Where  is  your  master,  you  d— d  old  baboon  ?"  said 
he,  entering  the  kitchen. 

"  My  mahster,  yes,  mahster,  my  mahster,  he — for  de 
love  o'  Gaud,  young  gent'mun,  don't  pint  herdis  way, 
— she  mought  be  loaded.  Take  a  cheer,  young  mah 
ster  ;  jess  set  up  to  de  table"  (over  which  he  gave  a  rapid 
pass  with  his  s.leeve)  "  an'  lemme  gi'  you  some  o'  dat 
nice  bacon  I  was  jess  a-fryin'  for  my  mahster's  supper." 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  37 

At  these  words  old  Jim's  teeth  began  to  chatter  so 
that  he  forgot  the  belligerent  brier. 

The  soldier,  hungry  from  his  march,  fell  to,  nothing 
loath,  but  had  scarcely  eaten  three  mouthfuls  before 
several  of  his  comrades  appeared,  all  of  whom  fell  foul 
of  poor  old  Jim's  supper  with  military  ardor,  if  without 
military  precision. 

"Where's  the  old  P.  F.  Y.  ?"  asked  a  new-comer, 
through  a  mouthful  of  hoe-cake. 

"Yes,  where  is  your  master?"  put  in  the  first  man. 
"  You  didn't  tell  me.  Out  with  it." 

Joe  had  had  time  to  repent  of  his  ill-advised  admis 
sion  in  regard  to  the  supper. 

"  You  ax  me  whar  Mr.  Bush  is  ?  Oh,  he's  in  Cul- 
peper  Court-House.  Leastways,  he  leif  b'fo'  light  dis 
mornin'  boun'  dar." 

The  audacious  lack  of  adjustment  between  this  state 
ment  and  the  facts  of  the  case  amazed,  almost  amused, 
old  Jim.  Breathing  a  little  freer,  he  ventured  softly  to 
shake  his  ear  loose  from  the  brier;  for  he  could  not 
reach  it  with  his  hand. 

"  Why.  you  lying  old  ape,  didn't  you  tell  me  that 
this  was  his  supper  ?" 

"Cert'n'y,  young  gent'mun;  cert'n'y  I  say  dat,  in 
course." 

"And  your  master  at  Culpeper?" 

"Yes,  young  mahster.  Dis  is  de  way  'tis.  You 
'pear  like  a  stranger  in  dese  parts,  beggin'  your  par 
don,  an'  maybe  you  mout'n'  understan'  how  de  folks 
'bout  here  is.  S'posin'  some  o'  de  neighbors  had  'a'  step 
in,  and  dar  warn't  nothin'  for  'em  to  eat,  an'  mahster 
hear  'bout  it  when  he  come  back,  how  I  turn  a  gent' 
mun  hongry  'way  fum  de  do'.  How  'bout  dat,  you 
reckon  ?  Umgh-umgh  !  You  don't  know  my  mahster  I 
Didn't  I  try  it  once !  Lord  'a'  mussy  I" 

"  How  was  it  ?" 

"  You  ax  me  how  was  it !  Go  'long,  chile !"  (No  mus 
ket  had  gone  off  yet,  and  Joe  began  to  feel  rather  more 
comfortable.)  "  Go  'long  I  My  mahster  was  off  fox- 
huntin'  wid  some  o'  de  bloods, — some  o'  de  bloods, — 
an'  when  he  come  back  an'  find  out  I  hadn't  cook  no 


38  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

supper  jess  'cause  he  was  away,  an'  I  done  turn  a  gent'- 
mun  off  widout  he  supper,  mahfiter  he  gimme,  eff  you 
b'lieve  Joe,  he  gimme  'bout  de  keenest  breshin'  Joe 
ever  tase  in  he  born  days."  And,  throwing  back  his 
head,  he  gave  a  laugh  such  as  these  soldiers  had  never 
heard  in  their  lives. 

And  none  of  us  shall  ever  hear  again. 

As  for  old  Jim,  who  had  never  laid  the  weight  of  his 
finger  on  the  romancer  whose  imagination  was  now 
playing  like  a  fountain,  tears  of  affectionate  gratitude 
came  into  his  eyes. 

An  instant  later,  and  all  kindly  feeling  was  curdled  in 
his  simple  heart. 

Hearing  a  bustle,  he  peeped  through  the  briers,  and 
saw  the  officer  in  command  of  the  party  coming  towards 
the  kitchen,  bearing  in  his  hand  the  Virginia  flag.  He 
had  discovered  it  in  old  Jim's  bedroom,  where  he  had 
tacked  it  upon  the  bare  wall,  so  that  it  was  the  last 
thing  he  saw  at  night  and  the  first  his  opening  eyes 
beheld.  It  was  an  insult  to  the  Union  soldiers,  he 
heard  the  officer  say,  to  flaunt  the  old  rag  in  their 
faces.  It  was  what  no  patriot  could  stand.  He  would 
teach  the  dashed  rebels  a  lesson.  "Set  fire  to  this 
house,"  he  ordered.  "The  old  rattletrap  would  fall 
down  anyway,  the  first  high  wind  that  came  along," 
he  added,  with  a  laugh. 

That  laugh  had  a  keener  sting  for  old  Jim  than  the 
order  to  burn  down  the  house  which  had  sheltered  him 
for  sixty  years.  The  bitterest  thing  about  poverty, 
says  Juvenal,  is  that  it  makes  men  ridiculous. 

Late  in  the  night,  when  the  smoking  ruins  of  his 
house  no  longer  gave  any  light,  Jim  crawled  stealthily 
down  the  ravine.  Could  the  sentry,  as  he  marched 
back  and  forth  on  his  beat,  have  seen  the  look  that  the 
old  man,  turning,  fixed  upon  him  every  now  and  then 
as  he  made  his  way  through  the  jungle,  he  would  have 
felt  less  comfortable.  As  for  Jim,  half  dead  with  cold, 
he  reached  the  fires  of  the  Confederate  pickets  at  day 
break.  On  his  way  he  had  stopped  at  a  certain  old 
oak,  and,  thrusting  down  his  arm  into  its  hollow  trunk, 
drew  forth  his  rifle. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF,  39 

"  Bushy-tails,"  said  he,  with  grave  passion,  waving 
his  hand  in  the  direction  of  the  tree-tops  above  him, 
"  you  needn't  mind  old  Jim  any  longer.  Lead  is  skeerce 
these  times.  You  may  skip  'round  and  chatter  all  you 
want  to.  Your  smellers  is  safe.  And  gobblers,  you 
may  gobble  and  strut  in  peace  now.  You  needn't  say 
put!  put!  when  you  see  me  creepin'  'round.  I  won't 
be  a-lookin'  for  you.  You'll  have  to  excuse  the  old 
man.  Bullets  is  skeerce  these  days,  let  alone  powder. 
So,  good-by,  my  honeys.  And  if  you  will  forgive  me 
the  harm  I  have  done  you,  old  Jim  won't  trouble  you 
any  more." 

And  so,  with  his  rifle  across  his  lap,  he  sat  upon  a 
log  and  warmed  his  benumbed  limbs,  and,  looking  into 
friendly  faces,  warmed  his  heart,  too. 

"  I  say,  old  man,"  said  a  young  soldier,  chaffing  him, 
"what  do  you  call  that  thing  lying  in  your  lap?  Can 
it  shoot?" 

"  I  call  her  Old  Betsey,"  said  he.  "  You  may  laugh 
at  her,  but  if  you  hold  her  right  and  steady,  she  hurts. 
There  ain't  anything  funny  about  Old  Betsey's  business 
end,  I  promise  you."  And  he  tapped  the  muzzle  of  his 
rifle  with  a  grim  smile. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  (it  took  him 
all  this  day  to  get  thawed)  old  Jim  bade  the  jolly  boys 
at  the  picket  station  good-day.  He  was  going  scout 
ing,  he  said.  ' 

"Leave  the  old  pop-gun  behind,"  cried  one. 

"  No,  take  it  along,"  put  in  another.  "  Perhaps  you 
may  knock  over  a  molly-cotton-tail.  Fetch  her  in, 
and  we  will  help  you  cook  her." 

33. 

Just  before  sundown  the  old  man  reached  the  sum 
mit  of  a  densely- wooded  little  hill,  about  three  hundred 
yards  from  where  his  house  had  lately  stood.  Stopping 
in  front  of  a  tall  hickory  on  its  apex,  he  raised  his  eyes 
and  surveyed  the  tree  from  bottom  to  top. 

"  I  went  up  it  once,  after  nuts,"  said  he,  speaking 
aloud  ;  "  but  that  was  many  a  year  ago, — let  me  see, — 
yes,  forty-five  years.  Well,  I  must  try — ah,  I  see, — I 


40  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

can  make  it."     And,  leaning  Old  Betsey  against  the 
huge  trunk,  he  tackled  a  young  white  oak. 

Old  Jim  was  tough  and  wiry,  and  found  no  great  dif 
ficulty  in  climbing  this  to  a  point  about  thirty  feet  from 
the  ground,  where  a  large  branch  of  the  hickory  came 
within  a  foot  of  the  white  oak.  This  he  cooned  till  he 
reached  the  trunk.  [I  have  not  time  to  define  cooning. 
Suffice  it  to  say  that,  like  heat,  it  is  a  mode  of  motion.] 
Toiling  up  this  till  he  reached  a  fork  about  eighty  feet 
from  the  ground,  he,  with  a  sharp  effort,  adjusted  his 
own  bifurcation  to  that  of  the  tree,  and  immediately, 
without  taking  time  to  collect  his  breath,  leaned  for 
ward,  and  fixed  his  eyes  intently  upon  the  little  open 
space  in  front  of  the  ruins  of  his  house.  He  gazed, 
motionless,  for  a  little  while,  then  nodded  his  head, — 
"  Ah,  there  he  comes."  He  sat  there  for  half  an  hour, 
watching  the  sentry  come  into  view  and  again  pass  out 
of  sight,  as  he  marched  to  and  fro.  "  "Well,  old  man," 
said  he,  at  last,  "  I  reckon  you  know  about  all  you 
want  to  know."  And  twisting  his  stiff  leg  out  of  the 
fork,  with  a  wry  face,  he  descended  the  hickory,  and 
took  his  seat  upon  a  fallen  trunk  that  lay  near,  throw 
ing  old  Betsey  across  his  lap.  It  was  growing  dark,  and 
every  now  and  then  he  raised  his  rifle  to  his  cheek  and 
took  aim  at  various  trees  around  him.  Took  aim  again 
and  again,  lowering  and  raising  his  rifle,  with  con 
tracted  brows.  "  I  am  afraid  my  eyes*  are  growing 
dim,"  he  muttered ;  "  but  the  moon  will  rise  at  a  quar 
ter  to  ten,  and  then  it  will  be  all  right,  won't  it,  old 
Bet  ?  Don't  you  remember  that  big  gobbler  we  tum 
bled  out  of  the  beech-tree,  one  moonlight  night — let  me 
see — nineteen  years  ago  coming  next  Christmas  Eve  ? 
And  you'  ain't  going  to  go  back  on  me  to-night,  are 
you?  Oh,  I  know  you  will  stand  by  me  this  one  time, 
if  my  eyes  are  just  a  little  old  and  dim.  I  know  you 
will  help  me  out,  as  you  have  done  many  a  time  before, 
when  I  didn't  point  you  just  right,  but  you  knew  where 
I  wanted  the  bullet  to  go.  Do  you  know  what's  hap 
pened,  old  gal  ?  Do  you  know  that  the  little  corner 
behind  the  bed,  where  you  have  stood  for  fifty  years,  is 
all  ashes  now,  and  the  bed,  too?  Do  you  hear  mo. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  41 

Betsey  ?  And  as  the  Holy  Scripture  says,  the  birds  of 
the  air  have  their  nests,  and  the  foxes  their  holes,  but 
you  ar.d  I  have  not  where  to  lay  our  heads." 

The  old  man  bowed  his  head  over  his  rifle;  and  the 
fading  twilight  revealed  the  cold,  steady  gleam  of  its 
polished  barrel,  spotted  with  the  quivering  shimmer  of 
hot  tears. 

33. 

A  soldier  marched  to  and  fro  in  the  darkness.  It  op 
pressed  him,  and  he  longed  for  the  moon  to  rise. 

Does  the  wisest  among  us  know  what  to  pray  for  ? 

Tramp !  tramp !  tramp !  tramp !  He  pauses  at  one  end 
of  his  beat  and  looks  down  upon  his  comrades  sleeping, 
wrapped  in  their  blankets,  with  their  feet  to  the  fire. 
When  his  hour  is  up,  he,  too,  will  sleep.  Yes,  and  it  is 
up,  now,  poor  fellow,  and  your  sleep  will  know  no 
waking ! 

Yet  it  was  not  you  who  burned  the  nest  of  the  poor 
old  man.  Nor  even  your  regiment.  Nor  had  you  helped 
to  hound  the  South  to  revolution  by  threats  and  con 
tumely.  'Twas  John  Brown  dissolved  the  Union.  You 
hated  him  and  his  work,  for  you  loved  your  whole 
country, — you  and  your  father,  who  bade  you  good-by, 
the  other  day,  with  averted  face.  And  now  you  must 
die  that  that  work  may  be  undone.  You  and  half  a 
million  more  of  your  people. 

The  South  salutes  your  memory ! 

Ah,  the  moon  is  rising  now.  Ribbons  of  light  steal 
ing  through  the  trees  lie  across  his  path,  and  yonder, 
at  the  farther  end  of  it,  the  Queen  of  Night  pours  a 
flood  of  soft  effulgence  through  a  rift  in  the  wood. 
The  young  soldier  stood  in  the  midst  of  it,  bathed  in  a 
glorious  plenitude  of  peaceful  light.  Such  perfect  still 
ness  !  Can  this  be  war,  thought  he  ?  He  could  hear 
the  ticking  of  his  watch  upon  his  heart.  But  the  click ! 
click !  beneath  that  dark  old  oak, — that  he  did  not  hear. 
And  that  barrel  that  glitters  grimly  even  in  the  shadow, 
— he  sees  it  not.  The  tear-stains  are  upon  it  still ;  but 
the  tears  are  dried  and  gone. 

Click!  click! 

The  muzzle  rises  slowly ;  butt  and  shoulder  meet.  A 
4* 


42  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

head  bends  low ;  a  left  eye  closes ;  the  right,  brown  as 
a  hawk's  and  as  fierce,  glares,  from  beneath  corrugated 
brow,  along  a  barrel  that  rests  as  though  in  a  grip  of 
steel.  The  keen  report  of  a  sporting  rifle — not  loud, 
but  crisp  and  clear — rings  through  the  silent  wood,  and 
there  is  a  heavy  fall  and  a  groan. 

And  the  placid  moon,  serene  mocker  of  mortals  and 
their  woes,  floated  upward  and  upward,  and  on  and  on. 
On  and  on,  supremely  tranquil,  over  other  scenes, 
whether  of  love  or  hate. 

Ah,  can  it  be  true  that  we  poor  men  have  no  friend 
anywhere  in  the  heavens  above,  as  some  would  have 
us  believe?  or  the  ever-peaceful  gods,  dwellers  upon 
Olympus,  have  they  in  very  deed  forgotten  us? 

34. 

"Where's  your  game,  grandpa?"  asked  the  young 
soldier.  "  We  have  been  sitting  up  waiting  for  you 
and  your  rabbit." 

"There  are  two  kinds  of  game,"  replied  the  old  man, 
warming  his  hands  before  the  fire  ;  "  one  sort  you  bring 
home,  the  other  kind  you  send  home." 

"  What  1  did  you  shoot  a  Yankee  ?  One  of  the  boys 
thought  he  heard  the  crack  of  a  rifle." 

"  'Twas  old  Betsey,"  replied  he,  patting  her  cheek,  as 
it  were.  "  We  whacked  one  of  'em.  He  won't  set  fire 
to  any  more  houses,  I  reckon." 

After  this,  old  Jim,  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the 
country  for  miles  around,  became  a  regular  scout;  and 
going  and  coming  at  all  hours  of  the  night  and  day,  he 
was  soon  well-known  along  the  line  of  our  outposts. 
And  whenever  he  had  important  information  to  give,  he 
went  straight  to  headquarters ;  but  whenever,  after  a 
moonlight  night,  he  stopped  at  the  picket-post,  sat 
down  on  a  log  and  toyed  with  his  rifle,  seeming  to  have 
nothing  to  say,  the  boys  knew  that  he  was  waiting  for 
a  certain  question :  "  Yes,  old  Betsey  and  me  whacked 
one  of  'em  last  night."  And  then  he  would  set  out 
for  headquarters,  and  the  soldiers,  passing  the  news, 
and  adopting  old  Jim's  word,  would  say,  "  Old  Bush 
whacked  another  of  the  rascals  last  night."  And  these 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  43 

two  words,  so  often  brought  in  contact,  at  last  cohered. 
Bushwhacker  did  not,  therefore,  originally,  at  least, 
mean  a  man  who  whacked  from  behind  a  thicket,  but 
one  who  whacked  after  the  fashion  of  old  Jim  Bush. 

35. 

And  I  am  a  Bushwhacker  who  whacketh  after  that 
fashion.  So  much  so,  that  it  seems  to  me  that  my 
parents  made  a  sort  of  prophetic  pun  when  they  named 
me  John  Bouche.  The  difference  between  me  and  old 
Jim  is  simply  this :  that  he  expressed  his  sentiments 
with  a  carnal  rifle,  I  mine  with  a  spiritual  one.  He  hung 
upon  the  skirts  of  the  Northern  hosts ;  I  go  stalking 
stragglers  from  the  Noble  Army  of  Lies.  Every  sham 
the  sturdy  Whacker  molecules  of  me  impel  my  soul  to 
hate.  Yet  my  Huguenot  blood  shrinks  from  martyr 
dom.  Did  not  they  leave  France  to  avoid  it?  I  never 
attack  the  main  body.  But  let  a  feeble,  emaciated,  and 
worn-out  little  lie,  or  a  blustering,  braggart  fraud,  or 
a  conceited,  coxcombical  sham,  stray  to  the  right  or 
left,  or  get  belated  on  the  march !  I  pounce  upon  him 
like  an  owl  upon  a  field-mouse.  It  is  my  nature  to. 
And  so  the  reader  must  not  be  surprised,  as  we  journey 
along  together,  through  scene  after  scene  of  my  story, 
to  find  herself  suddenly  left  alone  at  the  most  unex 
pected  times  and  places.  I'll  come  back,  after  a  while, 
bringing  a  scalp ;  after  which  we  will  jog  along  to 
gether,  for  a  chapter  or  so,  again. 

And  a  jolly,  rousing,  mad  time  we  shall  have  of  it, 
then.  For  it  is  on  such  occasions  that  I  put  my  mus 
tang  through  his  comical  paces, — my  coal-black  mustang, 
with  his  great,  shaggy  mane,  and  bushy,  flowing  tail, 
that  sweeps  the  ground.  For  though,  as  every  school 
boy  knows,  a  Poet  or  other  Gifted  Person  is  properly 
mounted  only  on  a  Pegasus,  I  have  been  unable  to  get 
me  one  of  those  winged,  high-bounding  steeds. 

36. 

And  now,  fair  lady,  the  manager  makes  his  bow  and 
exit.  You  will  soon  be  in  better  company. 

One  word  more, — he  begs  your  pardon.     He  led  you 


44  THE  'STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

to  believe  that  the  opera  began  at  eight,  sharp.  You 
were  there,  in  your  seat,  on  time,  eager  to  hear  the 
first  notes  of  the  opening  chorus.  But  I  feared  that 
had  you  known  there  was  to  be  a  long  overture  you 
would  have  been  late,  and  thereby  missed  certain  leit 
motifs,  not  to  have  heard  which  would  have  marred 
what  was  to  follow.  Honestly,  now,  had  you  known 
that  Chapter  I.  was  not  Chapter  I.,  nor  chapter  of  any 
kind,  would  you  have  read  it?  Would  you  not  have 
skipped  it,  clear  and  clean  (for  it's  a  hundred  to  one 
that  you  are  a  woman),  had  you  known  that  it  was  my 
Introduction  ? 


A! 

T 


Flauti. 


Oboi. 


Clarinetti 

inB. 


Fagotti, 


Corno  I.  n.  II. 
inEs. 


Corno  III. 
ia£s. 


Trombe 
in  Es, 


Timpani 
in  Es.  B. 


Violinol. 


Violino  II. 


Viola, 


Violoncello  e 
Oontrabasso. 


^fc= 

71 


SYMPHONY  OF  LIFE. 

MOVEMENT  I. 


ALLEGED   CON  BRIO. 


CHAPTEE  II. 

As  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun  were  gilding  the 
modest  spires  of  Richmond,  early  in  the  month  of 
October,  1860,  I  was  sitting  with  two  young  ladies  at 
the  front  parlor  window  of  a  house  on  Leigh  Street. 
One  of  these,  Lucy  Poythress,  like  myself,  was  from 
the  county  of  Leicester;*  or,  to  speak  with  entire  ex 
actness,  her  father's  residence  was  separated  from  my 
grandfather's,  in  that  county,  by  a  river  only.  She  had 
arrived  in  Richmond  that  morning,  on  a  visit  to  her 
friend,  Alice  Carter.  As  the  two  girls,  lately  school 
mates,  had  not  met  for  three  months,  and  had  just 
risen  from  an  excellent  dinner, — that  notable  promoter 
of  the  affections, — I  deem  it  superfluous  to  state  that 
they  were  holding  each  other's  hands. 

Also,  they  were  talking. 

"Oh,  Lucy  I"  exclaimed  Alice,  suddenly  starting  up, 
"  I  had  forgotten  to  tell  you.  I  have  fallen  in  love, — 
that  is,  nearly.  I  must  tell  you  about  it,"  continued  she, 
talking,  at  the  same  time,  with  her  lips,  her  hands,  and 
her  merry-glancing  hazel  eyes, — "  it  was  so  romantic  1" 

"  Of  course,"  said  I. 

"Ah,  don't  be  jealous  1"  retorted  she,  coaxingly. 
"  But  you  see,  Lucy,  one  day  last  week,  as  I  was  cross, 
ing  the  street,  two  squares  below  here,  I  struck  my 

*  There  is  no  such  county  in  Virginia :  for  Leicester  read  Gloucester. 
— Ed. 

45 


46  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

foot  against  something  and  fell  flat.  A  book  that  I 
carried  tumbled  one  way,  my  veil  flew  another,  and — " 

"  And  some  pale,  poetic  stranger  helped  you  to  rise," 
interrupted  I. 

"  Yes;  a  gentleman  who  was  meeting  me  just  as  I 
fell,  and  whose  face  I  am  sure  I  had  never  before  seen 
in  Richmond,  ran  forward,  lifted  me  up,  got  me  my 
book  and  veil,  and,  in  short,  he  was  so  graceful,  and 
his  voice  was  so  gentle,  when  he  said  '  Excuse  me,'  aa 
he  lifted  me  from  the  ground,  that — I  confess — I — " 
And  dropping  her  eyes,  and  with  an  inimitable  sim 
per  on  her  countenance,  she  made  as  though  straight 
ening,  between  thumb  and  forefinger,  the  hem  of  her 
handkerchief. 

"  Ah,  you  are  the  same  dear  old  Alice  still,"  cried 
Lucy,  leaning  forward,  and,  with  laughing  lips,  kissing 
her  on  the  cheek.  "  And  you  fell  in  love  with  the  grace 
ful  stranger?" 

"  Yes,  indeed, — that  is,  as  much  as  was  becoming  in 
a  young  woman  of  eighteen  summers.  By  the  way, 
Lucy,  you  too  have  reached  that  dignified  age  since  I 
last  saw  you.  Don't  you  begin  to  feel  ancient  ?  I  do. 
We  shall  soon  be  old  maids." 

"And  the  romantic  stranger,  in  that  event?"  asked 
I.  "He,  I  suppose,  will  go  hurl  himself  dismally  off 
Mayo's  bridge.  By  the  way,  yonder  he  comes  now." 

I  am  aware  that  the  barest  insinuation  of  the  kind 
is  flouted  and  scouted  by  the  lovelier  portion  of  man 
kind;  but  among  men  it  is  always  frankly  admitted 
that  women  are  not  destitute  of  curiosity. 

"  Yonder  he  comes  now,"  said  I,  languidly,  as  one  who 
had  dined  well.  Two  lovely  heads  shot  instantly  out 
of  the  window. 

"  Where  ?  where  ?" 

"There,"  said  I;  "that  tall  chap  with  the  heavy 
beard,  on  the  other  side  of  the  street." 

"  Well,  upon  my  word,"  cried  Alice,  "  'tis  the  very 
man  !  How  on  earth  did  you  know  it  was  he  ?  You 
didn't?  Really  and  truly?  How  strange!  Oh,  if  he 
would  only  cross  the  street  and  walk  past  our  window  ! 
There,  I  believe — no — yes,  here  he  comes  across  I  How 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  47 

nice  !  "What  on  earth  makes  him  carry  his  hat  in  his 
hand  ?" 

"  Is  that  really  your  graceful  friend  ?"  asked  I,  grow 
ing  interested. 

"  It  is  certainly  he ;  I  am  sure  I  am  not  mistaken." 

The  Unknown  was  crossing  the  street  in  a  very 
leisurely,  or  rather  abstracted,  manner,  evidently  ab 
sorbed  in  thought, — or  the  lack  of  it, — for  extremes 
meet.  With  hat  in  hand  and  chin  pressed  upon  his 
breast,  he  sauntered  along  with  the  air  of  one  who  is 
going  nowhere,  and  cares  not  when  he  reaches  his  des 
tination.  When  he  reached  the  lamp-post  at  the  cor 
ner,  not  over  twenty  or  thirty  yards  from  where  we 
stood,  he  stopped,  hung  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head, 
and  drew  from  his  breast-pocket  a  pencil  and  a  piece  of 
stiff-looking  paper.  This  he  held  against  the  lamp-post, 
and  appeared  to  write  or  draw. 

We  drew  back  a  little  from  the  window. 

"  What  on  earth  is  he  going  to  do  ?"  exclaimed 
Alice. 

"He  is  doubtless  inditing  an  ode,"  said  I,  "in  com 
memoration  of  last  week's  romantic  interview.  'Lines 
to  a  fallen  angel,'  perhaps."  This  witticism  passed  un 
heeded. 

"  The  man's  crazy !"  said  Alice. 

The  Unknown  had  thrown  his  head  back,  and,  with 
his  eyes  nearly  closed,  was  gently  tapping  the  air  with 
the  pencil  in  a  kind  of  rhythm. 

"Did  you  ever!"  ejaculated  Alice. 

"  Did  you  ever !"  echoed  Lucy. 

"Well,  I  never!"  mocked  I. 

"St!" 

We  drew  still  farther  away  from  the  window.  He 
was  going  to  pass  us.  Pencil  and  paper  are  again  in 
breast-pocket,  hat  in  hand,  chin  upon  breast. 

"Isn't  he  nice  and  tall!" 

"  Yes ;  and  what  shoulders !" 

"  How  strong  he  looks ;  and  without  an  ounce  of  su 
perfluous  flesh !" 

"How  distinguished-looking!" 

So  chirruped  these  twain, — I,  meanwhile,  interject- 


48  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

ing  such  interruptions  as  I  could  think  of.  "No  one 
ever  says  of  me  that  I  haven't  an  ounce  of  superfluous 
flesh." 

"  Nor  ever  will,  unless  you  go  as  a  missionary  among 
the  Feejeeans,"  retorted  Alice. 

You  see  I  am  rather — but  no  matter  about  me. 

At  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk,  and  nearly  opposite  the 
window  at  which  we  were  standing,  was  an  oblong 
carriage-block  of  granite,  and  upon  this  was  seated,  at 
this  juncture,  a  sister  of  Lucy's, — a  little  girl  of  nearly 
four  years  of  age,  playing  with  a  set  of  painted  squares 
of  wood,  known  in  the  nursery  as  "  blocks,"  which  had 
been  presented  to  her  by  her  godmother,  Mrs.  Carter,  at 
whose  special  request  the  little  thing  had  been  brought 
to  Eichmond.  Her  country  nurse  was  standing  a  few 
paces  distant,  dressed  out  in  her  finest,  airing  her  best 
country  manners  for  the  bedazzlement  of  a  city  beau 
of  her  acquaintance  (as  having  been  formerly  of  her 
county),  a  mulatto  barber  who  had  chanced  to  pass  that 
way,  and  had  stopped  for  a  chat  about  old  times.  The 
Unknown  had  not  observed  the  little  girl  till,  in  his 
listless  way,  he  had  sauntered  to  within  a  few  feet  of 
her,  when,  catching  sight  of  the  mass  of  sunny  curls 
that  poured  over  her  neck  and  shoulders  (her  back 
was  turned  towards  him),  he  stopped,  and  seeing  what 
her  occupation  was  and  hearing  the  babbling  of  her 
little  tongue  as  she  agreed  with  herself,  now  upon  this 
plan,  now  on  that,  upsetting  one  structure  almost 
before  it  was  begun  for  another  which  was  to  share 
a  like  fate;  gazing  upon  this  little  scene,  a  look  of 
pleased  interest,  not  unmingled  with  sadness,  came  into 
his  face. 

"  He  is  a  married  man,"  said  I. 

"  Say  not  so !"  cried  Alice,  with  a  tragic  air. 

"  But  his  wife's  dead,"  I  added. 

"  I  breathe  again  !"  intoned  Alice,  in  the  same  vein. 

"Oh,  Alice!"  said  Lucy,  with  gentle  reproachfulness. 

"  Why,  of  course,  Lucy,"  began  Alice,  throwing  her 
self  into  an  argumentative  attitude,  "  of  course  I  do  not 
really  rejoice  at  the  poor  woman's  death ;  but  how  can 
you  expect  me  to  grieve  over  a  person  I  never — " 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  49 

"You  are  a  greater  scamp  than  ever,"  said  Lucy, 
laughingly  stopping  her  friend's  mouth  with  her  hand. 

The  little  architect  felt  that  some  one  stood  behind 
her,  and,  turning  her  head  and  judging  with  that  un 
erring  infantile  instinct  that  he  was  a  friend,  she  gave 
him  a  number  of  those  irresistible  little  looks,  with 
which  every  one  is  familiar,  half  coy,  half  coquettish, 
which  showed  that,  young  though  she  was,  her  name 
was  woman.  Ladies  at  her  time  of  life  do  not  appreci 
ate  the  necessity  of  introductions  as  preliminary  to 
conversation  with  gentlemen. 

"  Build  me  a  house  1"  cried  she  to  the  stranger,  run 
ning  towards  him  and  looking  now  into  his  face,  now 
at  her  blocks,  with  a  smile  half  expectation,  half 
timidity. 

"  I  build  you  a  house  ?  Why,  certainly,  little  brown 
eyes!" — taking  her  plump  cheeks  between  his  hands 
and  gazing  down  into  her  upturned  face  with  a  smile 
that  was  singularly  tender  and  bright;  and  all  the 
more  striking,  as  it  gleamed  forth  with  something  of 
the  suddenness  of  a  flash  of  sunlight  bursting  through 
a  cloud.  It  had  been  easy  to  see,  indeed,  as  he  ap 
proached  us  more  nearly,  that  his  preoccupations  were 
not  of  a  pleasant  character.  His  slightly  compressed 
lips  imparted  a  shade  of  grimness  to  his  look,  and  the 
mingled  expression  of  weariness  and  resolution  upon 
his  features  seemed  to  reveal  some  struggle  going  on  in 
his  breast. 

"  Well,  now,"  said  he,  taking  up  a  few  of  the  blocks 
as  he  seated  himself  upon  the  stepping-stone,  "  what 
kind  of  a  house  shall  we  build  ?" 

"  Did  you  ever!"  looked  we,  all  of  us! 

"  We-e-'ll,  we-e-'ll — we'll  m-a-k-e — let  me  tell  you — " 

"Saint  Paul's  Church?"  suggested  the  stranger, — 
"  with  a  great,  tall  steeple  I" 

"  N-o-o-o !  People  don't  live  in  churches !  M-a  k-e 
me — m-a-k-e  me — oh !  make  me  one  just  like  our 
house !"  cried  she,  with  sudden  triumph,  placing  her 
hand  upon  her  new-found  friend's  shoulder,  thrusting 
her  face  almost  against  his,  and  opening  wide  at  him 
her  great  brown  eyes,  as  much  as  to  say,  Now  we 
c  d  6 


50  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

have  it  1  And  away  she  skipped,  backwards,  on  the 
tips  of  her  toes,  clapping  her  dimpled  hands;  chirping 
forth,  meanwhile,  sundry  joyous,  inarticulate  notes ; 
which  I  shall  not  merely  say  were  as  sweet  as  the 
eong  of  the  birds, — for  they  were  warblings  from  the 
heart  of  a  happy  child, — which  notes,  I  take  it,  are  the 
loveliest  that  float  upward  into  the  dome  of  the  high 
heavens, — and  blessed  whose  fingers  avail  to  call  them 
forth! 

"  Well,  then,"  began  he,  gathering  together  his  blocks, 
"  here  are  our  bricks." 

"  Bricks  /"  cried  she,  in  a  voice  that  was  almost  shrill 
with  surprise.  "  Why,  it  is  not  a  brick  house !" 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  he,  carelessly  glancing  towards  the 
house  in  which  we  were. 

"Lor'  me,  that's  not  our  house  I  Did  you  think  that 
was  our  house  ?  Oh,  how  funny !"  cried  she,  gleefully 
triumphing  in  her  superior  knowledge ;  then,  running 
towards  the  open  window,  behind  the  curtains  of  which 
the  amused  spectators  of  this  scene  had  retired,  "  Sis 
ter  Lucy!"  exclaimed  she,  "what  do  you  think  !  This 
gentleman  thought  this  was  our  house,  and  we  are  just 
on  a  visit  here !  Sister  Lucy !  Sister  Lucy  I  Sister 
L-u-u-u-c-y !" 

Not  receiving  any  reply  from  that  alarmed  young 
person,  who  had  fled  with  me  into  one  corner  of  the 
room,  and  with  appalled  look  and  appealing  gestures 
was  endeavoring  to  check  the  convulsive  tittering  of 
her  friend  Alice,  who,  in  another  corner,  stood  bowed 
together,  weak  and  weeping  with  suppressed  laughter, 
the  little  girl  turned  to  her  friend  and  said,  "Sister 
Lucy  has  gone  up-stairs,  I  reckon." 

"  Thither  Luthy  hath  dawn  up-thtairs,  I  weckon,"— 
that  was  the  way  she  said  it ;  but  words  so  distorted, 
charm,  as  they  may,  when  they  fall,  like  crumpled  rose- 
leaves,  from  the  fair  portals  of  a  child's  mouth,  can 
please  the  eye  of  a  phonetic  reformer  only.  And  so 
with  the  reader's  consent, — in  fact,  as  a  compliment  to 
her, — I  shall  leave,  in  the  main,  such  transformations 
to  her  fancy. 

Besides,  how  utterly  unintelligible  would  be  a  dia- 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  51 

logue,  so  printed,  to  the  very  person  for  whose  benefit, 
chiefly,  this  work  has  been  undertaken.  In  his  illu 
mined  day,  you  know,  infants  will  have  ceased  to  lisp. 

The  stranger  had  risen  from  his  seat  with  rather  a 
startled  look,  but  upon  this  reassuring  suggestion  of 
his  little  friend,  resumed  it. 

"You  love  your  sister  Lucy  ever  so  much,  I  sup 
pose  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  indeed.     Mr.  Whacker  does,  too." 

This  remark  produced  a  profound  sensation  upon 
two,  certainly,  of  the  eavesdroppers.  Lucy,  who  was 
diffidence  itself,  blushed  to  the  roots  of  her  hair;  while 
an  uncomfortable  consciousness  of  looking  foolish  took 
possession  of  me.  Alice,  holding  her  sides,  fell  ex 
hausted  upon  a  sofa. 

"Mr.  who?"  asked  he,  with  a  sudden  look  of  interest, 
which  startled  us  all. 

"Mr.  Whacker;  don't  you  know  Mr.  Whacker?" 

"  Maybe  so ;  what  kind  of  a  man  is  he  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  is  a  nice  man,  and  he  is  so  funny, — he  maket* 
me  nearly  dead  with  laughing." 

"Does  your  sister  Lucy  love  this  nice,  funny  Mr. 
Whacker?" 

Lucy  looked  perfectly  aghast. 

"Yes,  she  do." 

"  She  do,  do  she  ?"  echoed  the  Unknown ;  while  rip 
ples  of  merriment  danced  about  his  singularly  intense 
and  glowing  eyes,  like  those  on  the  dark  waters  of 
some  deep  lake. 

'  Did  she  ever  tell  you  so  ?" 
'  Y-e-e-e-es,"  replied  she,  doubtfully. 
'  Mr.  Whacker,  I  assure  you,"  began  Lucy,  choking 
with  mortification,  "  I — " 

'  I  forgive,  though  I  can  never  forget — " 

<  But—" 

'  St !"  whispered  Alice  ;  "  it  is  as  good  as  a  play  I" 

'  But,  Alice,  it's  a  most  outrageous — " 

'  Never  mind, — listen  !" 

Meantime,  we  had  lost  a  few  sentences  of  the  col 
loquy,  which  seemed  to  be  affording  intense  amusement 
to  the  Stranger. 


52  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  But  what  did  she  say  ?"  were  the  first  words  we 
caught. 

"  She  said,"  began  the  little  thing,  gesticulating  with 
her  hands  and  rolling  her  eyes, — speaking,  in  fact,  with 
her  whole  body, — "  sister  Lucy,  she  said — " 

"  Well." 

"  Sister  Lucy,  she  said  Mr.  Whacker  was  mighty  fat, 
but  he  was  right  pretty." 

Imagine  the  scene  behind  the  curtains !  The  trouble 
was  that  Lucy,  who  was  as  truthful  as  Epaminondas, 
could  not  deny  having  paid  me,  in  substance,  this  two- 
edged  compliment.  So  she  could  only  bury  her  face 
in  her  hands.  As  for  the  Stranger,  he  actually  laughed 
aloud. 

"  But  do  ladies  always  love  pretty  men  ?" 

"  Why,  yes ;  I  love  my  sweetheart,  and  he  is  pretty." 

"  Your  sweetheart !     Have  you  a  sweetheart  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  she,  with  decision  and  complacency. 

"  What's  his  name  ?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you !" 

"  Do,  now." 

"  Oh,  I  can't !"  And  she  dropped  her  cheek  on  her  off 
shoulder  and  shut  her  eyes. 

"  Say,  do  you  like  candy  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  eagerly  wheeling  round ;  "  where  is 
it?" 

"  Never  mind.  If  you  will  tell  me,  I  will  bring  you 
some  to-morrow." 

"What's  in  that  paper?  I  'spec'  it's  candy,  right 
now !" 

"  No,"  said  he,  smiling ;  "  but  I  will  bring  you  some 
to-morrow  if  you  will  tell  me." 

She  stuck  a  finger  into  her  mouth  and  hung  her 
head. 

"  Eed  candy,"  began  he,  "  and  blue  candy,"  he  con 
tinued,  nodding  his  head  up  and  down,  between  the 
varieties,  with  a  sort  of  pantomimic  punctuation,  "  and 
green  candy — " 

Wide-eyed  delight  and  a  half-smile  of  eager  expecta 
tion  illumined  the  face  of  the  little  tempted  one. 

"  And  yellow  candy,  and — let  me  see — and  striped 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  53 

candy,   and    speckled    candy — and — and — and — ALL 
SORTS  OF  CANDY !" 

She  clasped  her  hands  and  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Will  you  ?" 

The  infant  that  hesitates  is  lost. 

"  And  tied  up  in  most  beautiful  paper — " 

"  You  won't  tell  Mr.  Whacker  ?" 

"No,  never! ! !" 

In  an  instant  the  little  creature  had  sprung  towards 
him,  seized  his  head,  pulled  it  down,  pressed  her  lips 
against  his  ear,  shot  the  momentous  name  therein  and 
bounded  back. 

"  There !     Give  me  the  candy !" 

"  I  said  I  should  get  it  to-morrow.  But  I  didn't  hear 
a  word.  Tell  me  over  again.  There, — whisper  it  in 
my  ear.  "Willie?  "Willie  what?"  said  he,  drawing  her 
towards  him.  "Ah,  that  is  the  name,  is  it?" 

We  did  not  hear  the  name,  and  I  must  suppose  it  was 
that  of  some  near  neighbor  of  her  father's. 

"Now,  don't  tell  Mr.  Whacker!" 

"No,"  replied  the  stranger;  but  he  had  heard  her 
with  the  outward  ear  only.  He  sat,  with  drawn  lids, 
gazing  upon  the  pavement,  and  softly  biting  his  nails, 
as  though  solving  some  problem.  His  lips  seemed  to 
move ;  and  every  now  and  then  he  looked,  out  of  the 
corners  of  his  eyes,  at  his  little  companion.  At  last  he 
slowly  rose,  but  stood  motionless,  with  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  ground. 

"Oh,  don't  go!"  cried  she,  her  fair,  upturned  face 
wearing  a  beautiful  expression  of  infantile  affection. 

And  here  our  mysterious  friend  had  another  surprise 
in  store  for  us.  For,  when  he  saw  that  look,  a  startled 
expression  came  into  his  face ;  and  leaning  forward,  he 
scrutinized  her  features  with  a  gaze  so  searching  that 
there  was  a  kind  of  glare  in  his  eyes, — so  that  the  little 
girl  dropped  her  eyes  and  drew  back,  as  though  with 
a  feeling  of  dread.  But  the  Unknown  suddenly  sat 
down  beside  her,  and,  taking  one  of  her  hands  in  both 
his,  patted  it  softly,  and,  in  a  voice  tender  as  that  of  a 
young  mother,  asked,  "  But  what  is  your  name,  my  little 
cherub  ?" 

6* 


54  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  My  name  is  Laura.  Let's  make  another  house — 
oh,  no,  let's  make  a  boat !" 

"Not  now.  But  Laura  what?  What  is  your  other 
name*?" 

"  My  name  is  Laura  Poythress." 

"  Laura  Poythress !" 

He  bowed  his  broad  shoulders  till  his  face  was  almost 
on  a  level  with  hers,  and  scanning  her  features  intently  : 
"Laura  Poythress,  Laura  Poythress,"  repeated  he,  to 
himself;  "  and  Lucy,  too !  and  Whacker  1" 

We  looked  at  each  other  with  wide  eyes. 

Again  the  stranger  rose;  this  time  with  nervous 
abruptness,  and  took  a  few  rapid  turns  up  and  down 
the  pavement,  close  to  little  Laura;  then  walking 
quickly  up  to  her,  and  stooping  down,  he  asked  her,  in 
an  eager  whisper,  "  Have  you  any  mother  ?" 

"  Yeth,"  replied  she,  with  a  simple  little  laugh,  "  of 
courth;  evvybody'th  dot  a  muvver!" 

He  seemed  to  avert  his  face  when  she  laid  down  this 
generalization ;  nor  could  we,  from  our  position,  see  his 
expression.  "  Yes,"  said  he ;  and  was  silent  for  a  while. 
"  What  is  your  mother's  name  ?" 

"  My  mother's  name  is  Mumma." 

"  But  what  is  her  real  sure-enough  name  ?" 

"  Her  name  is  Mumma,"  repeated  she,  with  emphasis. 
"Oh,  my  mother's  got  two  names.  She  is  named 
Mumma  and  she  is  named  Mrs.  Poythress." 

"Ah,  yes;  but  what  does  your  father  call  her?" 

"  My  papa  calls  my  mumma  my  dear ;  oh,  and  some 
times  he  calls  her  '  honey,' — because  she  is  so  sweet." 

"  Does  he  ever  call  her — let  me  see — does  he  ever  call 
her  Polly?" 

"  Oh,  me,  the  ideal"  cried  she,  raising  her  hands  and 
eyes  in  infantile  pity  of  his  ignorance.  "  Why,  that's 
Aunt  Polly's  name  1" 

"So  your  Aunt  Polly  is  named  Polly,  is  she?" 

"No,  she  ain't!  Aunt  Polly  is  named  Aunt  Polly. 
She  is  our  cook  at  our  house,  she  is." 

"  She  is  your  cook,  is  she  ?  And  what  does  she  call 
your  mother  ?" 

"  Mistiss." 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  55 

Just  then  the  mulatto  barber,  passing  by,  doffed  his 
hat  to  the  gentleman  ;  and  Dolly,  the  nurse,  left  alone, 
bethought  her  of  her  charge.  Coming  up,  she  dropped 
a  courtesy  to  the  Stranger,  and  told  Laura  it  was-time 
she  were  within  doors. 

"G-ood-by,  Laura,"  said  the  Unknown,  taking  her 
plump  little  hand  in  his;  "won't  you  give  me  a  kiss? 
Ah,  that's  a  good  little  girl !  One  more !  And  another  1 
Ah!"  And  he  patted  her  cheek.  "Good-byl" 

"  Dood-by !" 


CHAPTER  III. 

WE  looked  at  each  other,  and,  although  two-thirds 
of  us  were  girls,  several  seconds  passed  without  a  word 
being  spoken. 

"  Oh,  here  comes  Mary !"  And,  looking  across  the 
way,  I  saw  Mary  Eolfe  briskly  tripping  down  the  steps 
of  her  father's  residence.  Away  scampered  Alice  and 
Lucy  into  the  hall ;  not  to  unlock  the  front  door  for 
Mary,  tor  that,  Richmond-fashion,  stood  wide  open  ;  but 
impelled  by  that  instinctive  conviction,  never  entirely 
absent  from  the  female  breast,  that  life  is  short.  I  fol 
lowed  with  all  the  dignity  of  a  fledgling  counsellor-at- 
law,  and  possible  future  supreme  justice. 

The  three  met  on  the  sidewalk  and  it  began, — 'Eurus, 
Zephyrusque  Notusque. 

All  nature  is  one.  Remove  the  plug  from  a  basin 
and  see  how  the  water,  instead  of  pouring  straight  out 
in  a  business-like  way,  spins  round  and  round,  just  as 
though  it  knew  you  were  late  for  breakfast.  Behold, 
too,  the  planets  in  their  courses.  And  as  in  a  tornado, 
which  whirls  along  through  field  and  forest,  across 
mountain-chain  and  valley,  around  its  advancing  storm- 
centre,  so  in  one  of  those  lesser  atmospheric  disturb 
ances  set  up  by  the  conversation,  or  rather  contempo- 
raneousversation,  of  three  or  four  girls  just  met  (im 
possible  though  it  be,  in  the  present  state  of  our  knowl 
edge,  to  determine  in  advance  the  precise  location  of 


56  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

their  area  of  lowest  barometric  pressure),  it  is  clear, 
even  to  the  eye,  that  the  movement  of  the  girls  them 
selves  is  cyclonic.  And,  further,  just  as,  in  a  storm,  the 
area  of  highest  barometer  is  found  to  be  occupied  by  a 
more  or  less  tranquil  atmosphere,  so  you  shall  find 
that  the  centre  of  a  contemporaneousversation  always 
moves  forward  around  a  listener, — some  weakling  of  a 
girl,  with  a  bronchitis,  perhaps,  or,  in  rare  cases,  a  stam 
merer.  And  again,  just  as  a  body  of  air,  itself  capable 
of  levelling  houses  and  uprooting  trees,  may  be  forced 
into  quiescence  by  its  environment  of  storm,  so  may  a 
really  worthy  girl,  not  otherwise  inferior,  be  reduced  to 
silence  by  despair. 

This,  in  fact,  was  the  case  with  Lucy  in  the  present 
instance.  As  the  lovely  human  cyclone,  whose  outward 
sign  was  a  world  of  fluttering  ribbons  and  waving 
flounces,  came  whirling  up  the  steps,  through  the  hall, 
and  into  the  parlor,  it  was.  obvious  that  she  was  the 
pivot  around  which  it  revolved. 

In  plain  English,  she  found  it  impossible  to  get  in  a 
word. 

It  appears  that  Mary  had  seen,  from  her  window,  the 
Unknown,  and  watched  his  strange  performances  till 
he  was  gone.  She  had  not  seen  us  at  our  window,  and 
tripping  across  the  street  to  tell  her  dear  Alice  what  a 
singular  man  she  had  seen  sitting  on  her  carriage- 
block,  and  talking  with  Laura,  she  had  found  that  Alice 
had  seen  and  heard  more  than  she.  And  so,  with  that 
instinctive  dread  of  loss  of  time  so  characteristic  of  the 
sex,  they  both,  when  they  met  on  the  sidewalk,  began 
talking  at  once.  They  began  talking  to  each  other ;  but 
soon,  their  words,  in  obedience  to  that  law  of  which  Mr. 
Herbert  Spencer  makes  so  much  (that  moving  bodies 
always  follow  the  line  of  least  resistance),  began  flow 
ing  into  Lucy's  ears.  Not  that  Mary  took  possession 
of  one  ear,  Alice  of  the  other.  Rather  did  they,  in  obe 
dience  to  law,  revolve  around  her,  as  the  earth  around 
the  sun,  the  moon  round  the  earth,  water  round  its 
exit,  pouring  their  tidings  into  either  organ  with  im 
partial  eagerness. 

It  may  excite  wonder  among  my  male  readers  that 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  57 

Alice  should  have  told  Lucy  things  that  she  knew  the 
latter  had  seen  with  her  own  eyes.  But  this  would  be 
hardly  putting  the  case  fairly,  as  her  remarks  were 
couched  rather  in  the  form  of  exclamatory  comments 
than  of  pure  narrative.  The  male  reader,  again  (would 
that  there  were  no  such  dull  animals  in  the  world !), 
must  be  warned  not  to  suppose  that  Alice  and  Mary 
were  rude  in  talking  simultaneously.  It  is  discourteous, 
oh,  crass  mortal,  for  one  man  to  interrupt  another ;  but 
where  a  party  of  girls  are  met  together,  it  will  be  found 
that  the  words  of  each,  though  many,  are  no  impedi 
ment,  but  a  stimulus,  rather,  to  those  of  the  rest. 

Like  swallows  at  eventide,  circling  around  some  vil 
lage  chimney,  the  more  of  them  in  the  air  at  once,  the 
more  merrily  do  they  flit. 

And  it  will  be  found,  too,  that  no  matter  how  many 
have  been  talking  at  once,  each  will  have  heard  what 
all  have  said. 

It  is  when  I  contemplate  this  well-known  phenome 
non  th'at  my  wonder  daily  grows  that  no  allusion  has 
ever  been  made  to  this  acknowledged  superiority  of 
the  female  over  the  male  homo,  by  what  are  called 
the  woman-women,  in  their  annual  pow-wows  in  the 
interest  of  their  sex.  Cropped-haired  woman  after 
cropped-haired  woman  will  arise,  reinforced,  here  and 
there,  by  some  mild-eyed  male,  o'er  whose  sloping 
shoulders  soft  ringlets  cluster,  and  the  burden  of  the 
plaint  of  she-he  and  he-she,  alike,  will  be  only  that 
woman  is  unjustly  excluded  by  man  from  this  employ 
ment  or  that  privilege,  for  which  she  is  as  well  fitted  as 
he.  They  seem  to  me  to  forget  that  Hannibal  was  not 
overcome  till  Africa  was  invaded ;  and  they  will  never 
advance  their  cause  till  they  find  some  female  Scipio  to 
put  man  upon  the  defensive,  and  aggressively  insist 
that  the  real  question  is  not  whether  she  is  capable,of 
becoming  lawyer,  physician,  preacher,  but  whether  he 
is,  or,  at  any  rate,  will  be,  in  the  re-fashioned  world 
which  is  coming,  fit  for  any  avocation  whatever. 

Let  us  take  the  legal  profession  for  an  example.  Ex 
cluding  the  male  lawyer  of  the  period,  as  an  interested 
witness,  who  can  fail  to  see  hew  much  would  be  gained 


58  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

were  our  judges,  our  counsel,  and  our  jurymen  all 
women?  As  things  actually  stand,  the  law's  delay  has 
passed  into  a  proverb.  But  what  delay  could  there  be 
in  a  trial  wherein  all  the  witnesses  could  be  examined 
simultaneously,  without  a  word  being  lost  on  the  jury; 
where  the  learned  (and  lovely)  counsel  could  sum  up 
side  by  side  (like  a  pair  of  well-matched  trotters), 
neither  of  them  getting  in  the  first  word,  neither  (what 
fairness!)  being  allowed  the  last?  Again.  Instead  of  a 
drowsy  Bench,  hearing  nothing,  seeing  nothing,  you 
would  have  an  alert  Sofa,  capable  of  lending  one  ear  to 
the  plaintiff's  counsel,  one  to  the  defendant's ;  taking  in, 
with  one  eye,  every  convolution  of  the  jury's  back-hair 
(should  such  things  be),  while  with  the  other,  she — 
the  Court — estimated  the  relative  good  looks  of  the  liti 
gants,  preparatory  to  instructing  the  jury  and  laying 
down  the  law.  And  so  of  the  other  professions,  did 
space  allow. 

But  this  is  not  the  worst  of  the  matter.  AJready 
have  advanced  thinkers  begun  dimly  to  see  that,  with 
the  approaching  extinction  of  war,  the  time  will  come 
when  courage  will  be  worse  than  useless ;  while,  in  the 
rapid  multiplication  of  labor-saving  machinery,  there  is 
discernible  the  inevitable  approach  of  an  era  when 
superior  strength  will  be  a  disadvantage.  For  is  not 
strength  assimilated  food?  And  in  the  Struggle  for 
Existence  will  not  She,  requiring  less  food,  and  being 
therefore  Fittest,  survive  ?  So  that,  with  Seer's  eye,  I 
seem  to  behold  the  day  when  my  sex,  excluded  from 
every  avocation,  shall  perish  from  off  the  face  of  that 
earth  over  which  we  have  so  long  and  so  haughtily 
lorded. 

The  truth  is,  my  dear  lad  (would  that  you  were  a 
girl !),  I  shudder  when  I  think  of  your  fate  and  that  of 
your  brother  males,  three  hundred  years  from  now. 
Preserved  here  and  there  in  the  zoological  gardens  of 
the  wealthy  and  the  curious,  along  with  rare  specimens 
of  the  bison  of  the  prairie,  skeletons  of  the  American 
Indian  and  the  dodo;  exhibited  in  mammoth  moral 
shows,  and  meeting  the  stare  of  the  unnumbered 
female  of  the  period  with  a  once  wicked,  but  now, 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  59 

alas !  futile  wink,  you  will  rue  the  day  when  your  an 
cestors,  mistaking  might  for  right,  excluded  woman 
from  that  haven  of  rest,  the  ballot-box.  Why,  it  wa8 
but  the  other  day  that  I  saw  a  boy  with  a  basketful 
of  pups,  which  he  was  going  to  drown ;  and  on  my 
asking  him  why  he  condemned  them  to  this  fate,  he 
answered,  in  the  simplest  way,  "  Oh,  they  are  nothing 
but  she's." 

Yet  we  are  never  tired  of  boasting  of  our  nineteenth 
century ! 

How  the  world  is  to  be  kept  wagging  when  once  the 
custom  is  established  of  drowning  all  the  boy-babies 
(except  specimens  for  menageries  and  preserves),  is  a 
problem  for  the  science  of  the  future.  It  suffices  that 
I  have  recorded  my  views  upon  this  burning  question. 

And  upon  this  plank  of  my  platform  you,  my  grand- 
son-to-the-tenth-power,  will,  I  trust,  be  allowed  to  float 
by  the  womankind  of  your  day,  in  remembrance  of 
my  gallant  defence  of  their  rights  in  mine.  Yes,  yes, 
you  will  be  one  of  the  elect  and  undrowned! 


CHAPTER   IT. 

"On !"  cried  Alice,  springing  up  from  the  piano-stool. 
"  But,  Mary,  I  have  not  told  you  that  he  was  the  iden 
tical  man  who  lifted  me  up  the  other  day  when  I  fell 
in  the  street." 

"You  don't  tell  me  so!" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  the  very  man  ;  and,  strangest  of  all,  he 
seemed  to  know  something  about  us,  or  at  least  about 
Lucy  and  Mr.  Whacker."  And  she  related  the  strange 
doings  and  sayings  of  the  "Unknown  just  previous  to 
the  close  of  his  interview  with  Laura. 

"How  very  provoking,"  cried  Mary,  impatiently, 
"  that  I  should  have  been  prevented  from  dining  with 
you  girls  by  the  arrival  of  that  stupid  old  cousin  Wil 
liam,  as  mother  will  persist  in  calling  him,  though,  in 


60  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

my  opinion,  he  is  about  as  nearly  related  to  us  as  the 
man  in  the  moon!  Pshaw!"  And  she  stamped  her  foot. 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  am  too  sorry.  Why,  Mary,  it  would 
have  done" — and  her  irrepressible  eyes  began  to 
twinkle — "  for  a  scene  in  that  novel  which — " 

"Now,  Alice — "  began  Mary,  reddening. 

"Which  I  am  thinking  of  writing,"  continued  Alice, 
innocently.  "  Why,  what's  the  matter  ?" 

"Oh!" 

"  Is  Mary  writing  a  novel  ?"  asked  Lucy,  with  eager 
interest;  for  she  remembered  that  she  had  been  always 
regarded  as  the  genius  of  the  school. 

"I  spoke  of  the  novel  which  I  was  writing,"  per- 
sisted  Alice. 

"Yes,  but—" 

"  It  is  a  maxim  of  the  common  law,  Miss  Lucy,"  re 
marked  the  learned  counsel,  with  ponderous  gravity, 
"that  all  shall  be  held  innocent  till  proven  guilty.  But 
should  novel-writing  ever  be  made  (as  seems  inevitable) 
a  statutory  offence,  I  hold  it  as  probable  that  this  ruling 
will  be  reversed,  and  the  presumption  of  the  law  ad 
judged,  in  the  present  state  of  literature,  to  lie  the 
other  way, — in  plain  English,  that  the  onus  probandi 
innocentiam  would  be  held  to  rest  upon  the  prisoner  at 
the  bar." 

The  two  other  girls  laughed,  but  Mary  rewarded  my 
diversion  in  her  support  with  a  grateful  smile. 

"  To  think  I  should  have  missed  it !" 

"  Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you.  Come  over  and  dine  with 
us  to-morrow,  and  you  will  have  a  chance  of  seeing 
him." 

"  How  is  that  ?"  asked  Mary,  with  dancing  eyes. 

"  Why,  he  has  promised  to  bring  Laura  some  candy 
to-morrow  evening,  and  we  can  all  have  another  look 
at  him." 

"  Oh,  I  wonder  if  he  will  come  ?"  cried  Mary,  de- 
epondmgly. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,  for  he  seems  in  some  strange 
way  as  much  interested  in  us  as  we  in  him.  At  any 
rate,  you  will  dine  with  us.  Mr.  Whacker  will  of 
course  do  likewise." 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  Gl 

The  reader  will  please  imagine  the  dinner  in  question 
over,  the  three  young  ladies  eagerly  watching,  up  and 
down  the  street,  through  the  slats  of  the  closed  Vene 
tian  blinds,  while  Mrs.  Carter  and  myself,  too  dignified 
to  manifest  our  curiosity  so  clearly,  held  ourselves  in 
the  rear  as  a  sort  of  reserve.  Laura,  our  little  decoy  z 
was  trotting,  meanwhile,  from  room  to  room,  singing 
and  babbling;  having,  in  fact,  entirely  forgotten  the 
Stranger  and  his  promise.  It  had  been  decided  in  a 
council  of  war  not  to  remind  her  of  it  till  our  man  was 
seen  approaching,  when  she  was  to  be  sent  out  in  a 
casual  way  to  intercept  him. 

"Gracious,  here  he  is!"  exclaimed  all  three  of  the 
girls  at  once.  "  Where  is  Laura  ?" 

"  Laura !  Laura !  Laura !"  cried  Alice,  in  a  suppressed 
voice.  "  Mother  1  Mr.  Whacker !  somebody  bring  Laura, 
please." 

It  appears  that  the  Unknown,  instead  of  making  his 
approach  by  way  of  Leigh  Street,  as  we  somehow  ex 
pected,  had  suddenly  turned  into  that  thoroughfare 
from  the  cross-street.  The  girls  from  their  position 
commanded  a  view  of  this  cross-street  for  some  dis 
tance,  looking  towards  the  south,  as  the  Carters'  resi 
dence  was  but  one  remove  from  the  corner.  Strange 
to  say,  however,  the  gentleman  emerged  into  Leigh 
Street  from  the  north,  as  though  returning  from  a 
walk  in  the  country,  and  thus  came  upon  the  girls 
without  warning.  The  reserves,  forgetting  their  dig 
nity,  scampered  off  in  their  search  for  Laura.  She, 
meanwhile,  ignorant  of  her  importance,  was  sitting  in 
the  back  yard,  building  mounds  upon  a  pile  of  sand 
that  lay  there,  and  before  she  could  be  found  the 
stranger  had  passed.  He  turned  and  looked  back  sev 
eral  times,  and  when  he  reached  the  end  of  the  block 
he  stopped,  and,  turning,  looked  for  some  time  in  our 
direction.  Meanwhile,  I,  having  secured  the  little 
truant,  was  hurrying  to  the  frost,  while  Mrs.  Carter, 
plump  and  jovial  soul,  was  not  far  behind  me. 

"Make  haste!  make  haste!"  cried  Alice,  who,  with 
Mary,  had  in  her  impatience  found  her  way  into  the 
hall.  "Make  haste,  or  he  will  be  gone.  Come,  Laura, 


62  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

the  gentleman  with  the  candy  is  out  there.  There, 
quick !"  she  added,  with  a  little  push ;  and  Laura  trotted 
out  with  pleased  alacrity. 

"Too  late!"  sighed  Lucy  from  behind  the  shutters, 
where  she  had  been  placed  for  purposes  of  safe  obser 
vation.  "  Too  late !  he  has  moved  on." 


CHAPTER  V. 

THAT  evening,  as  I  bade  the  family  good-night,  after 
with  some  difficulty  escaping  from  Mrs.  Carter's  urgent 
invitation  to  dine  with  them  again  next  day,  I  agreed 
to  call  immediately  after  dinner,  so  as  to  be  on  hand 
should  the  Stranger,  as  we  thought  likely,  return  in 
search  of  Laura.  Nor  were  we  disappointed  ;  and  this 
time,  warned  by  the  failure  of  the  preceding  day,  we 
had  kept  Laura  well  in  hand ;  so  that  she  was  ready 
on  the  front  steps  as  he  was  passing. 

The  two  friends  smiled  as  their  eyes  met. 

"  Where  is  it  ?"  asked  she,  a  sudden  cloud  of  anxiety 
veiling  her  young  face, — for,  with  those  of  her  age,  not 
seeing  is  not  believing. 

"Never  mind!"  said  he,  tapping  his  breast-pocket 
with  a  knowing  air ;  and  she  hurried  down  the  steps 
as  best  she  could. 

He  unbuttoned  his  coat  and  slowly  inserted  his  hand 
into  his  breast-pocket. 

"  Pull  it  out !"  cried  she. 

"  I  feel  something !"  said  he,  with  mystery  in  his 
tones. 

"Yes!"  answered  she,  skipping  about  with  clasped 
hands. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  And  there  was  a  rattling,  as  of  stiff 
paper,  down  in  the  depths  of  his  pocket. 

"  Candy  1"  cried  she,  with  a  shout,  capering  higher 
than  ever. 

He  withdrew  the  package  from  his  pocket  with  a 
slowness  which  made  her  dance  with  impatience ;  opened 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  63 

one  end,  peeped  into  it  cautiously,  and  gave  her  a  beam 
ing  look  of  delighted  surprise. 

"Let  me  look,  too!"  cried  she;  and  he  held  it  down. 
She,  peeping  in,  returned  his  look  of  surprised  delight. 

What  would  life  be  without  its  fictions ! 

"It's  candy!"  cried  she;  and  seizing  the  package, 
and  putting  a  piece  into  her  mouth,  she  made  for  the 
'steps. 

"  Why,  where  are  you  going?" 

"  I  am  going  to  show  my  candy  to  sister  Lucy,"  re 
plied  she,  munching. 

"  Won't  j'ou  give  me  a  piece  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  she,  toddling  back  with  alacrity. 
"  Don't  take  a  big  piece,"  cautioned  she,  when  she  saw 
him  examining  the  contents  of  the  precious  package. 
"  Take  a  little  piece." 

The  stranger  smiled.  "  Laura,"  said  he,  "  there  is  a 
good  deal  of  human  nature  in  man ;  don't  you  think 

80?" 

"  Yeth,  ma'am,"  replied  she,  abstractedly ;  with  one 
hand  thrusting  into  her  mouth  a  second  piece,  while 
with  the  other  she  reached  down  into  the  bag  for  a  third. 

"  You  seem  to  like  candy  ?" 

"Yeth,  I  doeth,"  without  looking  up. 

"Come,"  said  he,  taking  the  package  and  closing  it; 
"if  you  eat  it  all,  you  won't  have  any  to  show  your 
sister  Lucy ;  besides,  it  will  make  you  sick." 

"  Candy  don't  never  make  me  sick.  I  can  show 
sister  Lucy  the  booful  bag  what  the  candy  came  in. 
Where  is  the  speckled  candy?" 

"  Oh,  the  man  didn't  have  any." 

"If  he  has  any,  another  to-morrow,  will  you  mako 
him  send  me  some?" 

" Oh,  yes;  but  let's  talk  a  little." 

"  May  I  have  another  little  piece  ?" 

"  There !  So  you  are  the  little  girl  who  doesn't  know 
what  her  mother's  name  is?" 

"Yes,  I  does;  my  mother's  name  is  named  Laura. 
My  mother  is  named  the  same  as  me.  My  name  is 
Laura,  too." 

Our  coaching  had  told. 


64  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  So  your  mother's  name  is  Laura,  is  it  ?"    And  the 
stranger -nodded  his  head  slowly  up  and  down.     "And 
where  is  your  mother  now  ?" 
"  She  is  at  our  house." 
"  A_nd  where  is  your  house  ?" 

"  Our  house  is  where  my  mother  is.     There  is  a  river 
where  our  house  is.     Don't  you  like  to  sail  in  a  boat  on 
a  river  ?    I'm  going  to  take  another  piece."     And  with  • 
a  roguish,  though  hesitating  smile,  she  began  to  insert 
her  dimpled  hand  into  the  bag. 

The  stranger  was  looking  upon  the  ground,  and 
heeded  neither  the  smilo  nor  the  movement  against 
the  bag. 

"  Where  do  you  go  in  your  boat  ?" 

She  mentioned  the  name  of  a  neighbor  of  my  grand 
father's,  across  the  river  from  her  home. 

"  And  where  else  ?" 

Another  of  our  neighbors.  The  stranger  repeated 
the  two  names  with  satisfaction. 

"  And  where  else  ?" 

He  never  once  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  pavement; 
and  there  was  a  sort  of  suppressed  eagerness  in  his 
voice  that  thrilled  us  all  with  a  strange  excitement,  we 
knew  not  why. 

"  We  sail  in  our  boat  to  see  Uncle  Tom."  [Many  of 
the  young  people  in  our  neighborhood  called  my  grand 
father  by  this  name.] 

"  Oh,  you  mean  your  Uncle  Tom — let  me  see," — and 
a  faint  smile  illumined  his  face, — "you  mean  your  Uncle 
Tom— Mulligins?"  t 

"No-o-o-ol  Minty-pepper  ain't  dood.  It  stings  my 
mouf." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  know, — you  sail  in  your  boat  to — see— 
your — Uncle  Tom — Higginbotham." 

Perhaps  she  dimly  perceived  that  he  was  drolling ; 
at  any  rate,  she  doubled  herself  up  with  an  affected 
little  laugh. 

"No,  I  will  tell  you,"  said  he,  raising  his  eyes  to  her 
face, — "it  is  your  Uncle  Tom  Whacker." 

The  audience  half  rose  from  their  seats.  "  Why,  who 
can  he  be?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Carter. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  65 

"  Yes;  that's  his  right  name, — Uncle  Mr.  Whacker. 
I  calls  him  Uncle  Tom.  He  is  a  hundred  years  old,  I 
reckon.  My  sister  loves  Mr.  Uncle  Whacker  some, 
but  she  loves  Mr. — Mr. — Mr.  Fat  Whacker  the  most." 
[Sensation !] 

As  this  is  the  second  remark  of  this  character  on 
Laura's  part  that  I  have  recorded,  it  is  high  time  that 
I  explained  that  the  idea  had  naturally  enough  arisen 
in  her  mind  from  hearing  Mary  and  Alice  rally  her 
sister  upon  the  increased  frequency  of  my  visits  to  the 
Carters'  since  her  arrival  in  town. 

"  Do  you  love  me  some  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  loves  you  a  heap !" 

u  And  I  loves  you  a  heap,  too,"  said  he ;  and  stoop 
ing,  he  kissed  her  several  times.     "And  now  I  suppose 
you  had  better  run  in  and  show  your  candy  to  your 
sister  Lucy." 

"  All  wight  1"  said  she ;  and  she  toddled  off. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  morning  following  these  occurrences,  and  for 
several  days  thereafter,  I  had  occasion  to  be  absent 
from  town.  Calling  at  the  Carters'  on  the  evening  of 
my  return,  I  found  that  the  daily  visits  of  the  myste 
rious  stranger  had  not  been  interrupted.  There  was, 
however,  nothing  of  special  interest  to  report.  The 
interviews  with  Laura  had  been  short,  and  marked  only 
by  the  invariable  production  of  the  package  of  candy. 
When  I  expressed  fears  for  that  young  lady's  digestion, 
I  learned  that,  owing  to  a  like  solicitude,  the  girls  had 
shared  the  danger  with  Laura  so  magnanimously  that 
her  health  was  in  no  immediate  peril. 

"  Here  are  still  some  of  the  remains  of  to-day's  spoil," 
said  Alice,  handing  me  a  collapsed  package. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "now  that  you  have  seen  him  so 
often,  what  do  you  think  of  him?  What  are  your  the 
ories  ?" 

e  6* 


66  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

11  There  are  as  many  opinions  as  there  are  girls,"  said 
Mrs.  Carter.  "  What  is  mine?  Well,  I  should  suppose 
that  I  was  too  old  to  express  an  opinion  upon  such 
romantic  affairs.  But  one  thing  I  will  say,  ho  is  un 
doubtedly  a  gentleman." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  mamma!"  cried  Alice,  running  up 
to  her  mother  and  kissing  her  on  the  cheek  with  what 
the  French  call  effusion, — "  thank  you !" 

"  And  what  are  you  up  to  now,  Rattle-brain  ?"  asked 
her  mother,  looking  at  her  daughter  with  a  smile  full 
of  affectionate  admiration. 

"  You  see,  Mr.  Whacker,"  said  Alice,  turning  to  me 
with  earnest  gravity  in  her  eyes,  under  which  their 
irrepressible  twinkle  could  have  been  discernible  only 
to  those  who  knew  her  well, — "  you  see  I  have  been  in 
love  with  him  ever  since  I  first  saw  him,  and  I  infer 
from  mamma's  remark  that  should  anything  ever  come 
of  it,  I  should  find  in  her  an  ally." 

"  Well,  we  shall  see,"  said  her  mother,  laughing. 

"And  what  does  Miss  Marj^  think  of  him?" 

"  Oh,  I'll  tell  you,"  promptly  began  Alice.  "  Mary, 
who  is,  you  know,  of  a  very  romant — " 

"Suppose,  Miss  Chatterbox,  you  will  be  so  good," 
interrupted  her  mother,  "  as  to  let  Mary  speak  for  her 
self." 

"'Tis  ever  thus,"  sighed  Alice,  pouting,  "never 
allowed  to  open  my  poor  little  mouth  !" 

"  I  give  you  permission  now,"  said  Mary.  "  Tell  Mr. 
Whacker,  if  you  know,  What  I  think  of  the  Don." 

"  The  who  ?" 

"  The  Don ;  that's  what  we  call  him." 

"  What !  is  he  a  Spaniard  ?" 

"  Not  at  all.  You  must  know,  we  put  Laura  up  to 
asking  him  his  name,  and  she  brought  back  the  drollest 
one  imaginable, — 'Don  Miff.'  Think  of  it!  Butof  course 
Laura  got  it  all  wrong ;  that  could  not  be  any  human 
being's  name, — of  course  not." 

"  The  Don  part  of  it,"  broke  in  Alice,  "  has  confirmed 
Mary  in  her  previously  entertained  opinion  that  he  was 
a  nobleman  of  some  sort  travelling  incog.;  it  would  be 
so  novelly,  you  know ;  though  what  good  it  could  do 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  67 

her  I  cannot  conceive,  even  were  it  so,  for  it  was  I  who 
'  sighted'  him  first ;  it  was  I  to  whom  he  first  offered 
his  hand ;  mark  that !  it  was  I  who  first  fell  in  love 
with  him ;  and  I  wish  it  distinctly  understood  that  as 
against  the  present  company" — and  she  made  a  sweep 
ing  courtesy — "  he — is — MINE !" 

"  I  waive  all  my  rights,"  said  I. 

"  Yes ;  but  I  don't  know  how  it  will  be  with  these 
girls,  particularly  Mary ;  for  Mary  is,  in  my  opinion, 
already  infatuated, — yes,  infatuated  with  this  Don  Miff, 
as  he  calls  himself." 

"  Why,  Alice,  how  can  you  say  so  ?"  But  an  explo 
sion  all  around  the  circle  aroused  Mary  to  the  con 
sciousness  that  once  more  and  for  the  thousand  and 
first  time  she  had  failed  to  detect  the  banter  that  lay  in 
ambush  behind  her  friend's  assumed  earnestness.  "Oh, 
I  knew  you  couldn't  mean  it,"  said  she,  with  a  faint 
smile.  "  The  truth  is,  Mr.  Whacker,"  continued  she, 
"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  altogether  like  this  mysterious 
Don.  Do  you  know,  Alice,  I  should  be  afraid  of 
him  ?" 

"  Afraid  of  him  !    Why,  pray  ?" 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  am  jumping  at  conclusions,  as  they 
say  we  women  all  do ;  but,  unless  I  am  greatly  mistaken, 
that  man,  while  he  might  be  a  very  staunch  friend,  is 
certainly  capable  of  proving  a  most  unrelenting  foe." 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  you  do  him  injustice,"  said  Lucy. 

This  young  woman  was  not  a  great  talker;  but 
whenever  the  absent  needed  a  defender,  the  suffering 
a  friend,  or  the  down-trodden  a  champion,  that  gentle 
voice  was  not  wanting. 

"  I  am  sure  nothing  could  surpass  the  gentleness  of 
his  manner  towards  little  Laura." 

"  Very  true,"  rejoined  Mary ;  "  but  have  you  not  no 
ticed  the  expression  of  his  eyes  at  times,  when  he  is 
pacing  to  and  fro,  as  he  did  for  some  time  yesterday, 
reviewing  in  his  mind,  I  should  judge,  some  event  in 
his  past  life?  Every  now  and  then  there  would  come 
into  them  a  look  so  stern  and  bitter  as  to  give  his 
countenance  an  expression  which  might  almost  bo 
called  ferocious." 


68  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Whacker,  I  think  Mary's  imagination  must 
be  running  away  with  her,"  broke  in  Lucy.  "Now  let 
me  tell  you  of  an  incident  which  all  of  us  witnessed 
one  day  while  you  were  absent.  The  day  had  been 
damp  and  raw ;  and  just  as  Mr.  Don  Miff — I  don't  won 
der  at  your  laughing, — was  there  ever  such  a  name 
before  ?  What  was  I  saying?  Ah  I  there  came  on  one 
of  those  cold  October  rains  just  as  the  Don  was  going 
away.  He  had  taken  but  a  few  steps  when  his  atten 
tion  was  arrested  by  the  whining  of  a  little  dog  across 
the  street.  What  kind  of  a  dog  did  you  say  it  was, 
Mrs.  Carter?" 

"  It  was  a  Mexican  dog,  a  wretched  little  thing,  of  a 
breed  which  is  almost  entirely  destitute  of  hair.  Our 
volunteers  brought  home  some  of  them,  as  curiosities, 
on  their  return  from  the  Mexican  war.  The  one  Lucy 
is  speaking  of  is  very  old,  and  is,  likely  enough,  the 
last  representative  of  his  species  in  the  city." 

"  Well,"  resumed  Lucy,  "  the  poor,  little,  naked  crea 
ture  was  whining  piteously  in  the  rain,  and  pawing 
against  that  alley-gate  over  yonder  by  that  large  tree; 
and  when  this  ferocious  man,  whom  Mary  thinks  so 
terrible,  saw  him,  he  stopped,  then  moved  on,  then 
stopped  again,  and  at  last,  seeing  that  the  little  thing 
had  been  shut  out,  he  actually  walked  across  the  street 
and  opened  the  gate  for  him  1" 

"  That  was  very  sweet  of  my  Don  !"  chimed  in  Alice. 

"  Yes,"  urged  Lucy,  with  gentle  warmth,  "  you 
girls  may  laugh,  and  you,  Mr.  Whacker,  may  smile — " 

"  Upon  my  word — " 

"  Oh,  I  saw  you — but  the  ferocity  of  a  man  who  is 
tender  with  children  and  kind  to  brutes  is  ferocity  of 
a  very  mild  form,  and  I — " 

"  Speech  !  speech !"  cried  Alice,  clapping  her  hands. 
And  Lucy  sank  back  in  her  chair,  blushing  at  her  own 
eloquence. 

"  Order !  order !  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  cried  Alice, 
gravely  tapping  on  the  table  with  a  spool.  "Sister 
Eolfe,  the  convention  would  be  pleased  to  hear  from 
you,  at  this  stage  of  the  proceedings,  a  continuation  of 
your  very  edifying  observations  touching  the  lord  Don 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  69 

Miff's  exceedingly  alarming  eyes.  Sister  Rolfe  has  the 
floor — order!  The  chair  must  insist  that  the  fat  lady 
on  the  sofa  come  to  order  !" 

The  last  remark  was  levelled  at  her  mother,  who  had 
a  singular  way  of  laughing ;  to  wit,  shaking  all  over, 
without  emitting  the  slightest  sound,  while  big  tears 
rolled  down  her  cheeks.  Alice  was  the  idol  of  her 
heart,  and  her  queer  freaks  of  vivacious  drollery  often 
set  her  mother  off,  as  at  present,  into  uncontrollable 
undulations  of  entirely  inaudible  laughter. 

"  The  fat  lady  on  the  sofa,  I  am  happy  to  be  able  to 
announce  to  the  audience,  is  coming  to." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Carter,  wiping  her  eyes,  "and  do 
you  cease  your  crazy  pranks  till  the  fat  lady  gets  her 
breath.  What  were  you  going  to  say,  Mary?" 

"  I  was  going  to  say  that  I  am  glad  I  said  what  I 
did,  if  for  no  other  reason  than  that  it  afforded  us  all 
another  opportunity  of  seeing  how  kind  and  charitable 
is  Lucy's  heart." 

"  Yes,"  said  Alice,  "  you  elicited  from  Lucy  her  maiden 
speech ;  which  I  had  never  expected  to  hear  in  this 
life." 

"But  really,"  continued  Mary,  "the  Don's  eyes  are 
peculiar.  Do  you  know  what  I  have  thought  of,  more 
than  once,  when  I  have  seen  their  rapidly  changing 
expression  ?  I  was  reminded  of  certain  stars  which — " 

"  Reminiscences  of  our  late  astronomy  class,"  broke 
in  Alice,  in  a  stage  whisper. 

Mary  smiled,  but  continued :  "  of  certain  stars  which 
seem  first  to  shrink  and  then  to  dilate, — now  growing 
dark,  at  the  next  moment  shooting  forth  bickering 
flames, — at  one  time — " 

Mary  here  caught  Alice's  eye,  and  could  get  no 
farther. 

Alice  rose  slowly  to  her  feet  and  said,  gravely  waving 
her  closed  fan  as  though  it  had  been  the  wand  of  a 
showman,  "  This,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  is  not  a  speech, 
but  poetry  and  romance.  I  would  simply  observe  that 
•when  a  young  woman  begins  by  stating  that  she  does 
not  like  a  certain  man,  and  ends  by  comparing  his  eyes 
to  stars,  the  last  state  of  that  young  woman  shall  be 


70  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

worse  than  the  first.  But  I  am  somehow  reminded  of 
the  Moonlight  Sonata.  Mr.  Whacker,  I  beg  you  will 
conduct  Miss  Lucy  to  the  piano." 


•      CHAPTBK  VII. 

"WHAT  do  you  think?"  said  I,  the  next  afternoon, 
as  I  entered  the  parlor.  The  young  ladies  were  all 
there ;  Lucy,  with  whom  I  had  an  engagement  to  walk, 
with  her  bonnet  on. 

"Oh,  what  is  it?" 

"  What  do  you  suppose  ?    Guess  ?" 

"  You  have  found  out  who  he  is  1" 

"  Not  exactly." 

"  You  have  seen  him !" 

"  Well,  yes." 

"  Have  you  met  him, — spoken  with  him  ?" 

I  nodded. 

"  Oh,  do  tell  us  all  about  it !" 

"  There  is  not  much  to  tell.  Just  this  moment,  on 
my  way  here,  I  came  upon  Laura  and  her  nurse  and 
the  Don  standing  at  the  corner.  Laura  did  not  ob 
serve  me  till  I  was  close  to  her,  but,  as  soon  as  she  did, 
she  ran  up  and  took  hold  of  my  hand,  and  said,  point 
ing  straight  at  the  Don,  'He's  the  one  what  gives  me 
the  candy ;'  and,  immediately  releasing  my  band,  she 
ran  up  and  seized  that  of  the  so-called  Don  Miff,  and, 
looking  up  into  his  face,  said,  'That  ain't  Uncle  Mr. 
Whacker.  That's  Mr.  Fat  Whacker.  He's  the  one 
what' — "  And  I  paused. 

"  Oh,  please  go  on !"  cried  Alice  and  Mary ;  while 
Lucy  colored  slightly. 

"  I  think  I  shall  have  to  leave  that  as  a  riddle  to  bo 
worked  out  at  your  leisure." 

"Oh,  the  terrible  infant!  What  did  you  say?  what 
could  you  say  ?" 

"  I  scarcely  kno\y  what  I  did  or  did  not  say.  Ho 
spoke  first,  saying  something  about  the  originality  of 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  71 

Laura's  mode  of  introducing  people,  and  I  made  some 
confused,  meaningless  reply,  and  then,  after  we  had 
exchanged  a  few  commonplaces — " 

"  Miss  Lucy !"  broke  in  a  voice ;  and,  looking  up,  we 
saw,  thrust  in  at  the  partly-open  parlor-door,  the  face 
of  Molly,  the  nurse.  "  Miss  Lucy,  won't  you  please, 
ma'am,  step  here  a  minute  ?" 

The  broad  grin  on  her  face  excited  curiosity,  while 
it  allayed  alarm. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Molly?" 

"  Dat  gent'mun  say — "  And  Molly  was  straightway 
overcome  by  an  acute  attack  of  the  giggles. 

"  What  ?"  . 

"  Dat  'ere  gent'mun  he  axed  me  to  ax  de  lady  o'  de 
house  ef  he  mought'n  take  Laura  round  to  Pizzini's  for 
some  ice-cream."* 

This  was  before  the  days  of  the  Charley  Boss  horror; 
but  the  proposition  threw  all  the  young  ladies  into  a 
ferment,  and  ejaculation  followed  ejaculation  in  rapid 
succession.  At  last  Alice  rose,  flew  up-stairs,  and  pres 
ently  returned  with  her  mother. 

"  What's  all  this  ?"  began  Mrs.  Carter. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  dis  is  adzactly  how  'twas.  Laura  ana 
me,  we  was  a-standin'  on  the  cornder  a-lookin',  and 
here  comes  de  gent'mun  dat's  always  a-bringin'  her  de 
candy,  and,  says  he,  'Good-evenin',  little  Eosebud,'  says 
jess  so,  and  'Howdy  do,  my  gal,'  says  he,  polite-liko, 
and  says  I,  'Sarvant,  mahster,'  says  I,  'I'm  about,'  says 
I ;  and  den  Marse  Jack  he  corned  up,  and  Laura,  she 
called  Marse  Jack  out  o'  he  name.  'Lor'  me,'  says  I, 
'  chill'un  don't  know  no  better.'  Howsomdever,  I  told 
her,  I  did,  'Heish!'  says  I,  easy-like,  and  'Mind  your 
raisin,'  says  I,  jess  as  I  tell  you,  and  Marse  Jack  will 
say  de  same ;  and  Marse  Jack  he  corned  on  here  to  de 
house,  and  we  was  a-standin'  on  de  cornder,  and  de 
gent'mun  says,  '  Laura,'  says  he,  '  I  ain't  got  no  candy 
for  you  to-day,  but  I  want  you  to  go  wid  me  to  Piz- 


*  In  my  occasional  attempts  at  representing  the  negro  dialect  I  shall 
(ag  I  have  already  done  in  the  case  of  Laura/s  prattle)  hold  a  middle 
course  between  the  true  and  the  intelligible. 


72  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

zini's  to  get  some  ice-cream  and  cake;  and  won't  you  go, 
my  gal,'  says  he,  '  an'  ax  de  lady  of  the  house,  down 

Sender,  ef  I  mought'n  take  little  Laura  to  Pizzini's  ?' 
at's  jess  what  he  said,  he  did,  jess  as  I  tell  you,  mum; 
and  Laura  she  clap  her  hands,  she  did,  and  '  Come  on, 
less  go,'  says  she,  widout  waitin'  for  nothin'  nor  no 
body,  she  did." 

A  brisk  discussion,  with  opinions  about  equally  di 
vided,  now  sprang  up  as  to  the  propriety  of  acceding 
to  the  request  of  the  stranger;  but  upon  Molly's  stating 
that  the  gentleman  expected  her  to  accompany  Laura, 
a  strong  majority  voted  in  the  affirmative ;  and  when 
the  little  lady  herself,  unable  to  control  her  impatience, 
came  bustling  into  the  parlor,  her  curls  dancing,  her 
cheeks  glowing,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  expectancy, 
the  proposition  was  carried  unanimously;  to  the  ob 
vious  satisfaction  of  Molly,  who  lost  no  time  in  sally 
ing  forth  with  her  little  charge. 

"  There  they  go !"  said  Lucy,  who  was  peeping 
through  the  blinds;  "  the  Don  and  Laura  hand  in  hand, 
and  Molly  bringing  up  the  rear.  Ah,  how  the  little 
thing  is  capering  with  delight !  Ah,  girls,  run  here  and 
see  how  the  little  woman  is  strutting  1  Now  he  is  point 
ing  out  to  her  a  cow  and  calf." 

And  so,  as  long  as  they  remained  in  sight,  she  chron 
icled  their  doings. 

As  Lucy  and  I  were  leaving  the  house  for  our  walk, 
some  one  suggested — it  was  Mary,  I  believe — that  it 
would  be  as  well  to  shadow,  in  detective  phrase,  the 
Don ;  but  she  firmly  refused  to  do  so,  saying  that  she 
knew  she  could  trust  him.  Still,  the  suggestion  left  its 
trail  upon  her  mind  ;  and  she  exhibited  an  eager  de 
light  when  we,  on  our  return,  saw,  at  the  distance  of  a 
couple  of  blocks,  the  Don  taking  leave  of  Laura  in 
front  of  the  Carters'. 

"I  knew  it,"  said  she,  with  modest  triumph.  "Mary 
has  read  so  many  novels  and  poems  that  she  lives  in 
constant  expectation  of  adventures ;  as  though  an  ad 
venture  could  happen  to  any  one  in  steady-going  Rich 
mond  1  Mr.  Whacker!"  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  starting. 

"What's  the  matter?" 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  73 

"  He  is  coming  this  way !  What  shall  we  do  ?"  And 
she  stood  as  though  rooted  to  the  pavement,  helplessly 
looking  about  her  for  some  avenue  of  escape. 

"Why,  what  do  you  fear?"  said  I,  laughing. 

"That's  true,"  said  she;  and  she  moved  forward 
again,  though  with  very  uncertain  tread. 

"  Mr.  Whacker,"  said  she,  presently,  "  would  you 
mind  giving  me  your  arm  ?" 

Meanwhile,  the  Don  was  coming  up  the  street,'  and. 
as  he  approached  us,  I  could  see  that  his  features  were 
softened  by  a  half  smile.  We  met,  face  to  face,  at  the 
corner  above  the  Carters'.  His  eyes  chancing  to  fall 
upon  my  face,  it  was  ohvious  that  he  recognized  me. 
Indeed,  I  am  sure  he  gave  me  something  like  a  bow, 
then  glancing  casually  at  Lucy.  Just  at  this  juncture 
she,  for  the  first  time,  looked  up,  and  their  eyes  met. 
It  was  then  that  I  understood  what  Mary  had  said 
about  his  eyes.  For  a  second  his  steps  seemed  almost 
arrested,  and  his  eyes,  filled  with  a  strange  mixture  of 
curiosity  and  intense  interest,  seemed  to  dilate  and 
to  shoot  forth  actual  gleams  of  light.  Lucy,  who  was 
leaning  heavily  upon  my  arm,  shivered  throughout  her 
entire  frame. 

"  Why,  what  can  be  the  matter  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  replied  she,  in  a  hollow 
voice.  "  Let  us  hurry  home, — I  can  hardly  breathe  !" 

Arrived  in  front  of  the  house,  within  which  was  to 
be  heard  the  busy  chattering  of  Laura  and  our  other 
friends,  Lucy  hurried  in  at  the  gate,  and,  without  at 
tempting  to  enter  the  house,  dropped  down  upon  the 
first  step  she  reached,  and  leaning  back,  drew  a  long 
breath. 

"Mr.  Whacker,"  said  she,  after  a  few  moments' 
silence,  "you  must  really  excuse  me.  I  cannot  con 
ceive  what  made  me  so  silly.  What  is  he  to  me?  But 
do  you  know,  sometimes  the  strangest  ideas  come  into 
my  head,  and  I  often  wonder  whether  other  people 
have  the  same.  Sometimes  I  will  visit  some  place  for 
the  first  time,  and  suddenly  it  will  seem  to  me  that  1 
have  been  there  before,  although  I  know  all  the  time 
that  it  is  not  so.  And  again  I  will  t>e  listening  to  some 
D  7 


74  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

one  relating  an  incident  just  happened,  and  it  will  seem 
such  an  old  story  to  me ;  and  it  will  seem  as  though  I 
had  heard  just  the  same  story  ages  and  ages  ago.  Do 
you  know,  I  sometimes  think  that  the  ancients — how 
ever,  it  is  all  nonsense,  of  course.  But  oh,  I  would  not 
feel  again  as  I  did  just  now  for  worlds !  Do  you  know, 
when  he  passed  me,  I  felt  a  sort  of  subtle,  aerial  force, 
a  kjnd  of  magnetic  influence,  as  it  is  called,  drawing 
me  towards  him,  and  so  strongly,  that  nothing  but  the 
firm  grasp  I  had  on  your  arm  saved  me  from  rushing 
up  to  him  and  taking  him  by  the  hand.  And  then, 
when  I  passed  him,  without  speaking  to  him,  suddenly 
there  came  over  me  the  strangest  feeling.  Will  you 
think  me  crazy  if  I  tell  you  what  it  was?" 

"  By  no  means,"  said  I,  much  interested. 

"  Well, — will  you  believe  me  ? — "a  sudden  pang  of  re 
morse." 

"  Eemorse !" 

"  Yes ;  I  cannot  think  of  a  better  word.  It  seemed 
to  me  as  though  I  had  known  him  ages  ago,  in  some 
other  world,  such  as  the  Pythagoreans  imagined,  and 
that  I,  bright  and  young  and  happy,  meeting  him  again, 
I,  though  I  saw  he  was  unhappy,  cruelly  passed  him 
by !  Oh,  Mr.  Whacker,  I  do  pity  him  so !" 

Her  lower  lip  trembled,  and  her  soft  brown  eyes 
glistened  with  rising  tears.  For  a  while  neither  of  us 
spoke, — she,  perhaps,  afraid  to  trust  her  voice,  I  re 
specting  her  emotion  by  silence. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  at  length,  "  it  is  an  old  story.  '  What's 
Hecuba  to  him,  or  he  to  Hecuba?'  We  cannot  help, 
though  we  would,  feeling  the  sorrows  of  others.  But, 
Miss  Lucy,  aren't  you  letting  your  imagination — no, 
your  tender-heartedness — run  away  with  your  judg 
ment  ?  Here  is  a  great,  strapping,  fine-looking  fellow, 
whom  you  have  seen  passing  along  the  street  a  few 
times,  with  a  rather  serious  expression  of  countenance, 
and  you  straightway  jump  to  the  conclusion  that  he 
is  profoundly  miserable,  and  even  shed  tears  over  his 
fate." 

"  Yes,  it  is  all  very  silly,  of  course,"  said  she,  smiling, 
and  brushing  away  her  tears. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  75 

"  And  you  must  admit  that  you  have  not  a  particle 
of  evidence,  not  a  scintilla,  as  we  lawyers  say,  that  the 
Don  is  any  more  to  be  pitied  than  I,  or  any  other 
person  of  your  acquaintance." 

"  Oh,  a  woman's  rules  of  evidence  are  very  different 
from  what  you  lawyers  find  in  your  great,  dusty,  dull 
volumes.  See  how  /  should  state  the  case.  I  see  a 
great,  strapping,  fine-looking  fellow,  to  borrow  your 
language,  coming  here,  day  after  day,  from  I  know  not 
how  far,  or  at  how  great  inconvenience  to  himself,  with 
no  other  object,  so  far  as  I  can  divine,  save  that  of  en 
joying  the  affectionate  greetings  of  a  little  child  of  less 
than  four  years  of  age,  whom  he  met  by  chance,  and 
who,  though  nothing  to  him,  in  one  sense  seems  every 
thing  to  him,  in  that  her  childish  love  has  gone  out  to 
him.  What  kind  of  a  home  must  this  man  have,  do 
you  think?  He  can  have  no  home.  And  yet  you 
wonder  that  I  am  sorry  for  him  !" 

"No,"  said  I,  gladly  seizing  the  opportunity  of 
changing  the  current  of  her  thoughts ;  "  it  is  true  that 
the  views  you  hold  of  evidence  do  not  coincide  with 
those  of  Greenleaf ;  but  I  have  long  since  ceased  to 
wonder  at  your  feeling  sorry  for  anybody  or  anything. 
The  number  of  kettles  that,  of  my  certain  knowledge, 
have,  through  your  intercession,  not  been  tied  to  stray 
dogs'  tails,  and  the  hosts  of  cats  that  have  escaped 
twine  cravats — " 

"  How  cruel  you  boys  used  to  be !" 

"  Why,  Lucy,  how  long  have  you  been  there  ?"  cried 
Alice,  leaning  out  of  the  window.  "  Come  here,  Mary, 
and  look  at  them, — it  is  a  clear  case.  Laura,"  added 
she,  looking  back  into  the  parlor,  but  speaking  .loud 
enough  for  us  to  hear, — "Laura,  for  one  so  juvenile, 
your  diagnosis  is  singularly  accurate." 

"H'm?  Whose  noses?"  asked  Laura,  looking  up 
from  the  doll  she  was  dressing. 


76  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 


CHAPTEE  VIII. 

I  THINK  it  will  be  allowed  that,  whatever  else  this 
story  may  be,  it  has  been,  so  far,  genteel.  It  is  with 
regret,  therefore,  that,  in  the  very  opening  of  this 
eighth  chapter,  I  find  myself  driven  to  the  use  of  a 
word  which  hardly  seems  to  comport  with  the  previous 
dignity  of  our  narrative.  But,  after  turning  the  matter 
over  in  my  mind  again  and  again,  I  have  found  it  im 
possible  to  discover  any  satisfactory  synonyme,  or  in 
vent  any  delicately-phrased  equivalent  for  the  very 
plebeian  vocable  in  question.  With  the  reader's  kind 
permission,  therefore — 

To  a  philosopher  and  a  philanthropist  (and  I  am 
somewhat  of  both,  after  a  Bushwhackerish  fashion) 
the  word  Lager  Bier  should  undoubtedly  be  one  of  the 
most  precious  additions  to  a  language  already  rich  in 
such  expressive  linguistic  combinations  as  Jersey  Light 
ning,  Gin  Sling,  Eum  and  Gum,  Eye  and  Eock,  Kill- 
Eound-The-Corner,  Santa  Cruz  Sour,  Stone  Fence, 
Forty-Eod,  Dead  Shot,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  not  to  mention  a 
host  of  such  etymological  simples  as  Juleps,  Smashes, 
Straights,  and  Cobblers.  For  the  introduction  into  this 
country  of  the  mild  tipple  it  indicates  has  unquestion 
ably  done  more  to  arrest  drunkenness  than  all  the  tem 
perance  societies  that  have  been,  are,  or  shall  be.  Still, 
the  word  itself,  spell  it  how  you  will,  has  hardly  a  dis 
tinguished  air;  and  hence  I  long  sought,  and  should 
gladly  have  adopted,  some  such  aristocratic  expression 
as  Brew  of  the  Black  Forest,  Nectar  of  Gambrinus, 
Deutscher's  Dew,  Suevorum  Gaudium  (i.e.  Schwabs' 
Bliss) — some  genteel  phrase,  in  a  word — but  that  I  was 
unwilling  to  sacrifice  precision  to  elegance. 

Now,  the  necessity  that  I  am  under  of  alluding  to 
the  Solace  of  Arminius  at  all,  arises  in  the  simplest 
way. 

At  the  period  of  which  I  am  writing,  this  beverage, 
newly  introduced,  had  great  vogue  in  Eichmond,  notably 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  77 

among  the  young  men.  Especially  did  college-bred 
young  fellows  give  in  a  prompt  adhesion  to  the  new 
faith ;  and  if,  in  any  party  of  such,  assembled  to  dis 
cuss,  in  a  double  sense,  this  new  ethereal  mildness, 
there  was  found  any  man  who  had  attended  the  Ger 
man  universities,  that  man  was  the  lion  of  the  evening. 
His  it  was  to  excite  our  wonder  by  reciting  deeds  of 
prowess  that  he  had  witnessed ;  his  to  tell  us  what  had 
been  done ;  his  to  show  us  how  it  could  be  done  again. 
I  wonder  whether  a  young  medical  man  whom  I  knew 
in  those  days  (now  a  staid  and  solid  doctor)  remembers 
the  laugh  which  greeted  him  when  he  essayed  to  ex 
plain,  to  an  attentive  class  that  he  was  coaching  in  the 
new  knowledge,  how  the  German  students  managed 
actually  to  pour  their  beer  down  their  throats, — swal 
lowed  it  without  swallowing,  that  is. 

"It  is  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world,"  said  he. 
"  See  here."  And  turning  a  glass  upside  down  over 
his  mouth,  its  entire  contents  disappeared  without  the 
slightest  visible  movement  of  his  throat.  "Didn't  you 
see  how  it  was  done?  The  whole  secret  lies  in  the 
voluntary  suppression  of  the  peristaltic  action  of  the  oesoph 
agus." 

"  The  deuse  you  say!"  cried  a  pupil.  "  Then,  if  that 
be  so,  I  for  one  say,  Let's  all  suppress."  And  that  be 
came  the  word  with  our  set  for  that  season,  and  much 
beer  perished. 

"Why  is  it  that  a  man  recalls  with  such  pleasure  the 
follies  of  his  youth?  And  why  is  it  that  the  wise 
things  we  do  make  so  little  impression  on  our  minds  ? 
For  my  own  part,  I  can  remember,  without  an  effort, 
scores  of  absurdities  that  I  have  been  guilty  of,  while 
of  acts  of  wisdom  scarcely  one  occurs  to  me. 

The  favorite  haunt  of  my  beer-drinking  friends  at 
this  period  was  a  smallish  room. — you  could  not  have 
called  it  a  saloon, — a  regular  nest  of  a  place,  situated, 
not  to  be  too  explicit,  not  very  far  from,  say  Fourth 
Street.  Our  little  nook  stood  alone  in  that  part  of  the 
city,  and,  being  so  isolated  in  an  exceedingly  quiet 
neighborhood,  it  met  exactly  the  wants  of  the  jovial 
though  orderly  set  of  young  professional  men  who, 

7* 


78  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

with  the  honest  Teutons  of  the  vicinage,  frequented 
it. 

"Well,  on  the  occasion  to  which  I  have  referred,  half 
a  dozen  of  us  were  grouped  around  a  table,  and  were 
unusually  merry  and  bright.  Our  doctor's  new  word 
had  been  hailed  as  a  real  acquisition,  in  honor  of  which 
there  was  some  sparkling  of  wit,  and  more  of  beer, — a 
happy  saying  being  as  real  a  provocative  of  thirst  as  a 
pretzel, — and,  moreover,  there  had  arisen  between  him 
and  a  young  and  promising  philologist,  lately  graduated 
at  the  university,  and  since  become  a  distinguished 
professor  in  the  land,  a  philologico-anatomical,  serio- 
comical  discussion,  in  which  the  philologian  maintained 
that  it  was  hopeless  for  American  to  emulate  German 
youth  in  this  matter  of  drinking  beer,  while  at  the 
same  time  maintaining  a  voluntary  suppression  of  the 
peristaltic  action  of  the  oesophagus,  for  the  very  simple 
reason  that  the  throat  of  the  German,  incessantly 
opened  wide  in  pronouncing  the  gutturals  of  his  lan 
guage,  and  hardened  by  the  passage  of  these  rough 
sounds,  becomes  in  process  of  time  an  open  pipe,  a 
clear,  firm  tube, — in  a  word,  a  regular  rat-hole  of  a 
throat,  such  as  no  English-speaking  youth  might 
reasonably  aspire  to.  The  medical  man,  I  remember, 
came  back  at  him  wifch  the  quick  smile  of  one  who 
knows,  and  asked  him  if  he  did  not  confound  the 
larynx  with  the  oesophagus. 

"  I  do,"  broke  in  a  young  lawyer. 

"You  do  what?" 

"  I  confound  the  larynxes  and  cesophagusses  of  both 
of  you.  Mine  are  growing  thirsty.  I  say,  boys,  let's 
suppress  'em  both.  Here,  fiinf  bier!" 

The  mild  Teuton  behind  the  bar  obeyed  the  order 
with  a  smile.  He  was  never  so  well  pleased  as  when 
a  debate  arose  among  us,  sure  that  every  flash  of  wit, 
every  stroke  of  humor,  would  be  followed  by  a  call  for 
beers  all  round. 

I  don't  think  we  etfer  drank  more  than  we  did  on 
that  evening  (I  really  believe  the  beer  was  better  then 
than  now);  and  just  as  we  were  in  the  midst  of  one  of 
our  highest  bursts  of  hilarity  the  door  opened  behind  me. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON   MIFF.  79 

"  Hello !"  said  the  doctor,  in  a  whisper ;  "  there's  our 
grenadier !" 

Turning,  I  saw  Don  Miff  standing  by  the  counter,  ex 
changing  in  the  German  language  a  few  commonplaces 
(as  I  supposed)  with  the  dispenser  of  beer. 

"  Who  is  he  ?  Where  did  you  ever  see  him  before  ?" 
I  asked. 

"  Why,  here,  of  course.  Is  it  possible  that  this  is  the 
first  time  you  have  seen  him?  Why,  he  has  been 
coming  here  every  evening  for  a  week  at  least.  Ah,  I 
remember,  you  have  not  put  in  an  appearance  for 
about  that  time.  We  boys  have  nicknamed  him  '  the 
Grenadier.'  He  always  takes  a  seat  at  that  table 
where  he  is  now,  and,  after  sitting  about  an  hour,  and 
drinking  two  or  three  glasses  of  beer,  goes  off.  We 
are  curious  to  know  who  the  deuse  he  can  be." 

"  Does  he  always  come  alone  ?" 

"  Invariably.  Never  speaks  to  a  soul,  save  Hans,  of 
course.  What!  do  you  know  him?" 

The  Don's  eyes  and  mine  had  met,  and  we  had  bowed  ; 
he  with  the  smile  courteous,  I  with  the  smile  expansive 
and  bland,  born  of  many  beers. 

"  No ;  I  can't  say  that  I  do.  I  have  met  him  on  the 
street  merely.  But  I  am  rather  interested  in  him, — - 
why,  I  will  tell  you  hereafter.  I  say,  boys,"  I  con 
tinued,  "  let's  have  him  over  here." 

"  Good !" 

I  approached  the  Don  with  my  sweetest  smile,  and, 
saluting  him,  said  something  about  our  being  a  jolly 
party  over  at  our  table,  and  wouldn't  he  join  us  ? 

"  Thanks ;  with  pleasure,"  said  he,  rising ;  and  the 
"  boys,"  seeing  him  approach,  made  room  for  him  with 
much  hospitable  bustle. 

"Mr.  Smith,"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice,  as  we  crossed 
the  room. 

"  Mr.  Whacker,"  replied  I ;  and,  seizing  his  hand,  I 
shook  it  with  unctuous  cordiality. 

Are  we  not  all  brethren  ? 


gO  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

""WELL,  fair  damsels,  I  have  found  out  the  great, 
great  secret !" 

"  Oh,  do  tell  us  I    Who  is  he  ?" 

"  Who  he  is  I  cannot  say,  but  I  now  know  his  name." 

"  Then  Don  Miff  is  not  his  real  name !"  said  Mary, 
with  a  rather  injured  air.  "  But  of  course  we  could 
not  expect,  in  our  eveiy-day  world,  to  meet  an  actual 
person  with  such  a  name  as  that." 

"  I  should  think  not,"  said  Alice.  "  But  what  is  his 
name,  Mr.  Whacker?  How  fearfully  slow  you  are, 
when  we  are  dying  of  curiosity,  as  you  know  I" 

"How  stupid  we  have  all  been!"  said  I. 

"  In  what  respect  ?" 

"  How  shockingly,  dismally  stupid  and  obtuse  1" 

"But  how?" 

"Did  you  not  put  Laura  up  to  asking  his  name? 
You  did.  And  did  she  not  bring  back  the  words  Don 
Miff  as  the  result  of  her  investigations,  and  none  of  us 
ever  suspected  the  plain  English  of  the  matter?" 

Here  Alice  gave  a  little  shriek  and  fell  upon  a  sofa. 

"Just  listen,"  said  I  to  Mary  and  Lucy,  who  were 
looking  from  Alice  to  me,  and  from  me  to  Alice,  with 
a  bewildered  air.  "Listen  carefully.  J-o-h-n  S-m-i-t-h, 
John  Smith,  or,  according  to  Laura,  Don  Miff!" 

"  Impossible  1"  cried  Mary,  with  a  resolute  stamp  of 
her  foot. 

"  But  he  told  me  his  name  himself." 

"I  can't  help  what  he  told  you;  but  no  one  shall 
ever  make  me  believe  that  his  name  is  John  Smith. 
There  are  people  named  Smith,  of  course." 

"  No  fair-minded  person  would  deny  that,"  said  Alice. 
"  Why,  Mary,  there  is  your  own  Aunt  Judy." 

"Yes,  dear  old  Aunt  Judy!"  said  Mary,  smiling. 
"But  John  Smith,  Alice, — John!  Now  can  you  believe 
that  any  Smith,  senior,  in  the  full  blaze  of  the  nine 
teenth  century,  would  name  his  son  John  ?" 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  81 

"  I  think  it  in  the  highest  degree  improbable,"  said 
Alice. 

"Improbable,  Alice?  Why,  it  is  preposterous.  At 
any  rate,  be  there  or  be  there  not  John  Smiths  in  the 
world,  that  is  not  his  name." 

"  "With  his  starry  eyes  1"  put  in  Alice,  languishingly. 

"With  his  starry  eyes!"  repeated  Mary,  smiling. 
"No;  say  what  he  will,  John  Smith  is  no  more  his 
name  than  Don  Miff  was.  And  as  I,  somehow,-  like 
the  oddity  of  the  latter,  Don  Miff  shall  he  be  with  me 
till  the  end  of  the  chapter." 

"  Selah !"  said  Alice. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  most  dangerous  gift  that  a  man  can  possess  is 
superior  skill  in  perilous  employments.  Sooner  or  later 
the  most  illustrious  lion-tamer  furnisheth  forth  funeral 
unbaked  meats  to  the  lordly  beast  he  has  so  long  bullied. 
Sooner  or  later,  dies  miserably  the  snake-charmer, 
charm  he  never  so  wisely..  The  noble  art  of  self-de 
fence  has  been  brought  to  high  perfection ;  but  you 
shall  no  more  find  a  prize-fighter  with  a  straight  nose 
than  a  rope-dancer  with  sound  ribs.  Every  now  and 
then  (for  the  danger  is  not  confined  to  the  experts 
themselves)  a  bullet,  advertised  to  perforate  an  orange, 
ploughs  the  scalp  (though  rarely  reaching  the  brain) 
of  its  human  support ;  and  I  make  no  doubt  that  the 
eminent  pippin  upon  which  Swiss  liberty  is  based  might 
kave  been  placed  once  too  often  on  his  son's  head,  had 
not  William  Tell  abandoned,  when  he  did,  archery  for 
politics. 

I  have  been  led  into  this  train  of  thought  by  an  acci 
dent  which  befell  a  number  of  the  actors  in  our  drama, 
through  intrusting  their  limbs,  their  lives,  and  their 
sacred  necks  to  the  keeping  of  a  young  man  who  was 
reputed  to  be  the  best  driver  of  Richmond  in  his  day. 

Now,  no  true  artist  is  content  unless  he  may  exhibit 
his  virtuosity ;  and  this  young  man,  like  all  crack 


82  .        THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

whips,  had  conceived  the  notion  that  the  art  of  driving 
consisted,  not  in  bringing  back  his  passengers  to  their 
point  of  departure,  safe  and  sound,  but  rather  in  show 
ing  how  near\he  could  take  them  to  the  gates  of  Para 
dise  without  actually  ushering  them  therein.  To  him 
the  sweetest  incense  was  the  long-drawn  sigh  of  relief 
breathed  out  by  his  friends  when  deposited,  once  again 
and  alive,  at  their  front  door.  Who  but  he  could  have 
controlled  such  untrained  horses, — spirited  is  what  he 
calls  them  ?  Who  passed  that  wagon  at  that  precise 
spot, — made  that  rapid  turn  without  upsetting? 

Think  not,  my  boy,  that  it  escapes  me  that  in  your 
bright  day  of  things  perfected  there  will  be  no  more 
drivers  of  horses, — nor  horses  either,  for  that  matter, 
save  in  zoological  gardens.  Not  forgetting  this,  but 
remembering  that  human  nature  remains  the  same, 
have  I  written  these  words.  Beware,  then,  oh,  last 
lingering  male,  perhaps,  of  the  line  of  the  Whackers, 
beware  of  the  crack  balloonist  of  your  favored  time ! 

There  were  four  of  us.  Lucy  and  Alice  sat  on  the 
rear  seat,  Sthenelus  and  I  in  front,  on  a  rather  more 
elevated  position.  Eeturning  from  our  drive,  wo  are 
rapidly  moving  down  Franklin  Street.  A  heavy  country 
wagon  is  just  in  front  of  us,  and  not  far  behind  it, 
though  rather  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  another 
creeps  along,  both  meeting  us.  The  problem  was  to 
pass  between  them.  One  of  those  fellows  who  knows 
nothing  about  driving  would  have  brought  his  horses 
down  to  a  walk,  and  crept  through  in  inglorious  safety. 
Not  so  Sthenelus.  With  him  glory  was  above  safety; 
and  so,  leaning  forward,  he  lightly  agitated  the  reins 
along  the  backs  of  his  rapid  bays,  and  we  whizzed  past 
the  first  wagon.  The  next  instant  our  charioteer  went 
sprawling  over  the  dashboard,  carrying  the  reins  with 
him  ;  though  I,  foreseeing  the  collision  with  the  second 
wagon,  had  braced  myself  for  the  shock,  and  so  managed 
to  retain  my  seat. 

The  horses  bounded  instantly  forward,  and  rushed 
down  the  street  with  an  ever- in  creasing  speed.  The 
usual  scene  occurred.  Ladies  who  chanced  to  be  cross 
ing  the  street,  shrank  back  in  terror  to  the  sidewalk. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  83 

Nurses  scurried  hither  and  thither,  gathering  up  their 
charges.  Men  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  sti'eet,  shout 
ing  and  sawing  their  arras,  waving  hats,  umbrellas, 
handkerchiefs,  but  getting  out  of  the  way  just  in  time 
to  let  the  more  and  more  frantic  horses  pass;  while 
troops  of  boys  came  rushing  down  every  cross-street, 
their  eyes  a-glitter  with  barbaric  joy,  and  shouting 
back  the  glad  tidings  to  their  toiling  but  shorter-legged 
comrades  in  the  rear. 

Where  do  all  the  boys  come  from? 

But  wild  with  terror  as  they  were,  the  horses  turned 
up  the  cross-street  along  which  they  had  been  driven 
earlier  in  the  afternoon, — the  one,  that  is,  intersecting 
Leigh  one  block  above  the  Carters', — and  up  this  they 
rushed  with  a  terrific  clatter. 

Meanwhile,  I  had  not  been  idle.  Immediately  upon 
the  fall  of  our  charioteer  and  the  bounding  forward  of 
the  horses,  both  girls  had  sprung  to  their  feet  with  a 
cry  of  horror;  but  1  shouted  to  them  to  sit  down,  and 
they  obeyed.  Alice,  however,  with  every  jolt  of  un 
usual  severity  would  rise  and  attempt  to  leap  from  the 
vehicle,  and  again  and  again  I  had  to  seize  her  and 
thrust  her  back  into  her  seat.  Lucy,  on  the  contrary, 
gave  me  no  further  trouble.  Ashy  pale,  with  her  hands 
clasped,  she  sat  trembling  and  silent,  her  appealing 
eyes  fixed  upon  me.  At  last  I  insisted  upon  their  sit 
ting  upon  the  floor  of  the  carriage,  assuring  them,  in 
as  confident  a  tone  as  I  could  muster,  that  there  was 
no  danger  if  they  would  but  resolutely  hold  that  posi 
tion  ;  and  in  this,  too,  they  obeyed  me,  though  in  Alice's 
case  I  had  to  supplement  my  commands  by  a  firm  grip 
upon  her  shoulder. 

At  last,  when  we  were  approaching  Leigh  Street  at 
a  furious  pace,  and  the  horses  were  turning  into  it,  a 
well-meaning  man  rushed,  with  a  loud  "  whoa,"  at  the 
horse  nearest  him,  at  the  same  time  belaboring  him 
with  his  umbrella ;  and  this  producing  an  extra  burst 
of  speed,  the  carriage  made  the  turn  literally  on  two 
wheels;  so  that,  in  momentary  expectation  of  an  upset, 
I  instinctively  released  ray  hold  on  Alice's  shoulder  and 
seized  the  edge  of  my  seat ;  while  the  girls  were  so 


84  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

frightened  that  Alice  sprang  up,  and,  with  a  wild  cry, 
threw  her  arms  around  my  neck,  Lucy,  at  the  same 
time,  seizing  my  right  arm. 

The  two  girls  pulling  down  upon  me  with  all  the 
strength  of  panic-terror,  there  was  no  help  for  it.  My 
heels  flew  up  in  the  air,  my  legs  assuming  the  shape  of 
a  gigantic  V. 

Picture  to  yourself,  gentle  reader,  Mr.  Fat  Whacker 
moving  down  Leigh  Street  in  this  alphabetical  order  1 

Even  had  I  not  been  throttled  almost  to  suffocation, 
I  believe  my  face  would  have  been  red  with  shame, — 
often  a  more  powerful  emotion  than  the  fear  of  death. 
(I,  for  example,  once  saw  an  officer,  while  the  battle  of 
Spottsylvania  Court-House  was  raging,  blush,  instead 
of  turning  pale,  when  a  cannon-ball,  rushing  past  him, 
annihilated  the  seat  of  his  trousers.) 

And  this  is  what  I  saw,  looking  through  that  V  as  a 
sharpshooter  through  the  hind-sight  of  his  rifle. 

I  saw  the  Don  and  Laura  cosily  sitting  on  the  car 
riage-block,  with  their  backs  towards  us,  the  nurse 
standing  near  by.  Molly  saw  us  as  soon  as  we  turned 
into  Leigh  Street,  and  knowing  the  horses,  I  suppose 
(all  recognition  of  me  being,  I  must  presume,  out  of  the 
question),  rushed  up  to  the  Don  with  a  scream.  He 
leaped  to  his  feet,  and,  taking  in  the  situation  at  a 
glance,  sprang  into  the  middle  of  the  street. 

Perhaps  the  effect  was  intensified  to  me  by  the  con 
centration  of  light  wrought  by  the  involuntary  hind 
sight  arrangement  of  my  legs  ;  possibly  my  perceptive 
faculties,  stimulated  by  the  situation,  were  unusually 
keen ;  but  the  bearing  and  look  of  the  Don  remain  to 
this  day  indelibly  impressed  upon  my  memory.  Hat- 
less,  he  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  one  leg  ad 
vanced,  and  with  both  arms,  after  the  fashion  of  ball 
players,  extended  to  the  front.  But  it  was  his  counte 
nance  that  struck  me  most.  His  grimly-set  lips,  his 
distended  nostrils,  his  brows  intensely  knit  over  his 
darkly  glancing  eyes,  but,  above  all,  his  head,  thrown 
back,  and  rocking  to  and  fro  in  sympathy  with  the  os 
cillations  of  the  approaching  team,  gave  him  a  look  of 
ferocious  disdain. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  85 

It  is  with  just  such  a  look,  I  can  imagine,  that  a  lion, 
famished  and  desperate,  after  long  and  vain  hunting  of 
giraffe  or  gazelle,  prepares  to  spring,  from  his  tangled 
ambuscade  of  rushes,  upon  the  horns  of  an  approaching 
bull.  What  must  be  done,  saith  his  mighty  heart,  must 
be  done — and  done  bravely. 

'Twas  Milton's  Satan  stood  there ! 

But  just  as  the  grimness  of  the  countenance  of  Cle- 
archus  appeared  odious  to  his  soldiers  in  camp,  but 
lovely  in  the  hour  of  battle,  so  the  look  I  have  been 
describing  seemed  to  me,  at  this  critical  juncture,  to 
rival  the  beautiful  disdain  of  Byron's  Apollo  Belvedere. 
It  was  the  sternly  confident  look  of  a  man  who  scorned 
to  rank  failure  among  possibilities. 

What  would  have  been  the  result,  had  the  horses 
held  their  straight  course  down  the  middle  of  the  street, 
we  can  only  conjecture,  but  such  was  the  force  of  habit 
that,  frantic  as  they  were,  they  bore  so  far  to  the  left, 
just  before  reaching  the  Don,  that  the  left  wheels  rat 
tled  along  the  gutter,  within  a  few  inches  of  the  car 
riage-block,  up  to  which  they  had  so  frequently  been 
driven  by  their  owner.  The  Don  rushed  to  the  right 
to  intercept  them,  and,  just  as  they  were  about  to  pass 
him,  sprang  upon  the  head  of  the  off  hor.se  with  an  in 
articulate  cry  so  fierce,  and  a  vigor  so  tremendous,  that 
the  animal,  partly  thrown  back  upon  his  haunches, 
swerved,  in  his  terror,  violently  to  the  left,  forcing  his 
mate  upon  the  sidewalk.  But  the  Don  had  leaped  too 
far.  Struck  in  the  right  side  by  the  cole,  he  was  hurled 
to  the  ground,  his  head  stinking  tne  pavement  with 
great  force.  In  a  moment  of  time  both  hoofs  and  wheels 
had  passed  over  his  prostrate  form. 

"  Oh !"  shrieked  the  girls,  releasing  me,  and  clasping 
their  hands  with  mingled  compassion  and  terror. 

The  Y  collapsed,  and  in  an  instant  I  went  spinning 
over  the  dash-board. 

The  near-horse,  his  neck  broken  against  the  lamp 
post,  lay  stone  dead ;  while  the  other,  his  traces  burst, 
stood  trembling  in  every  fibre,  and,  as  he  pulled  back 
against  the  reins,  which  still  held  him,  uneasily  snort 
ing  at  his  lifeless  yoke-fellow. 

8 


H6  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

I  WAS  somewhat  stunned  by  my  fall,  but  extricating 
myself  from  my  entanglements,  I  rose  just  in  time  to 
see  Alice  spring  from  the  carriage,  followed  by  Lucy. 
The  latter  fell  as  she  alighted  from  the  carriage,  but 
before  I  could  reach  her  the  Don  had  staggered  up  to 
her  and  lifted  her  from  the  ground.  He  was  hardly 
recognizable.  His  clothes  were  soiled  and  torn,  and 
blood  was  streaming  from  two  ugly  gashes  in  his  face, — 
one  on  his  forehead  and  another  in  his  right  cheek. 

"  I  trust  you  are  not  hurt  ?"  said  he. 

"  Not  at  all,"  answered  Lucy,  quickly,  before  she  had 
looked  at  him,  or  knew,  in  fact,  who  had  assisted  her 
to  rise.  "  Oh,"  cried  she,  clasping  her  hands,  when  she 
caught  sight  of  his  face,  "but  you  are  dreadfully  hurt  I" 

"  Oh,  no,"  replied  he,  with  a  ghastly  smile  ;  "  merely 
a  few  scratches." 

"  Oh,  but  you  are  I  Alice !  Mr.  "Whacker !  The 
gentleman — " 

But  her  further  utterance  was  interrupted  by  the 
almost  hysterical  entrance  upon  the  scene  of  Mrs.  Car 
ter,  who  flew  from  one  girl  to  the  other  pale  and  tremu 
lous,  endeavoring  to  assure  herself,  by  repeated  embraces, 
that  they  were  not  dead.  In  a  few  moments  a  miscel 
laneous  crowd  had  clustered  around  our  party,  through 
which  Mary,  who  had  witnessed  the  accident  from  her 
window,  rushed  to  greet  her  friends.  To  add  to  the 
confusion,  little  Laura,  her  nerves  unstrung  by  the 
scene,  was  wailing  piteously;  so  that,  for  a  moment, 
we  forgot  the  Don. 

"Look!  oh,  look!"  suddenly  cried  Lucy,  in  an  ex 
cited  voice ;  and  seizing  me  by  the  arm,  she  gave  me  a 
push.  "Quick!  quick!"  said  she,  pointing  towards 
our  deliverer. 

He  was  leaning  heavily  against  the  lamp-post,  which, 
for  support,  he  had  clasped  with  his  arms ;  but,  their 
hold  relaxed,  they  had  fallen  and  hung  listlessly  by  his 


THE  STORY   OF  DON  MIFF.  87 

side.      With  pallid  face,  vacant,  upturned  eyes,  and 
parted  lips,  he  was  slowly  sinking  to  the  ground. 

I  sprang  forward,  but  too  late  to  catch  him  as  he  fell, 
or,  rather,  sank  gently  to  the  pavement,  his  head  find 
ing  a  pillow  in  the  body  of  the  dead  horse. 

"  Who  is  he,  Mary  ?  How  was  he  hurt  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Carter,  eagerly,  as  she  saw  Lucy  hurrying  to  his  side, 
and  bending  over  him  with  an  expression  of  agonized 
terror  in  her  face. 

"  It  is  the  Don.  He  tried  to  stop  the  horses,  but  was 
knocked  down,  and  then  both  they  and  the  carriage 
passed  over  his  body." 

Mrs.  Carter  was  by  his  side  in  an  instant.  His  eyes 
were  closed,  but  opening  them  slightly,  and  seeing 
her  sympathizing  looks,  a  faint  smile  illumined  his 
ashy-pale  features. 

"  Ask  some  of  these  people,"  whispered  Mrs.  Carter, 
"  to  help  you  carry  him  into  the  house." 

He  seemed  to  hear  her,  for  his  eyes  opened  again  and 
his  lips  moved,  though  they  gave  forth  no  sound. 
"What's  the  m-m-m-matter,  Jack?" 
Feeling  a  hand  on  my  shoulder,  I  turned  and  saw 
my  friend  Charley. 

"  What,  you  in  the  city!  You  are  just  in  time.  We 
want  to  take  this  gentleman  into  Mr.  Carter's." 

Charley  and  I  took  hold  of  his  head  and  shoulders, 
some  volunteers  his  body  and  limbs,  and,  lifting  him 
gently,  we  moved  towards  the  house.  Some  papers 
fell  out  of  his  breast-pocket  as  we  raised  him  from  the 
ground,  which  Charley  gathered  together  and  put  into 
his  own  pocket  for  the  time  being. 

"  Where  shall  we  take  him  ?"  I  inquired,  as  we  entered 
the  hall. 

"Up-stairs,  into  the  front  room.  Here,  this  way," 
said  Mrs.  Carter.  "  Alice,"  said  she,  suddenly  stopping 
midway  on  the  stairs,  "  send  for  the  doctor,  instantly. 
This  way, — gently.  Ah,  here  we  are  at  last!  This 
room.  There,  lay  him  on  that  bed.  Thank  you,  gen 
tlemen.  Now,  Lucy  dear,  bring  me  some  water  and 
towels.  Thank  you.  Don't  be  so  alarmed,  child  ;  he 
will  soon  revive."  And  she  gently  passed  a  corner  of 


88  TEE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

the  moistened  towel  over  his  soiled  and  blood-stained 
face.  At  this  he  opened  his  eyes  for  an  instant,  and 
looked  up  into  Mrs.  Carter's  face  with  a  smile  of  lan 
guid  gratitude,  and  then,  closing  them  again,  soon  began 
to  breathe  heavily. 

"He  is  asleep,  girls;  you  had  best  leave  him  now  to 
these  gentlemen  and  myself.  The  doctor  will  soon  be 
here,  I  hope.  When  did  you  reach  the  city,  Mr.  Fro- 
bisher?"  asked  she,  in  a  sick-room  whisper,  turning  to 
Charley. 

.  "To-day.  On  a  little  b-b-b-business.  "Who  is  our 
friend  ?"  And  he  nodded  towards  the  bed. 

"  Oh,  I'll  let  the  girls  tell  you  when  you  go  down 
stairs.  It  is  rather  a  long  and  strange  story." 

When  the  doctor  came  he  found  the  Don  in  a  heavy 
sleep  and  decided  to  make  no  examination  into  his  in 
juries,  till  he  awoke.  So  he  lay,  just  as  he  was,  in  his 
clothes,  till  eleven  o'clock,  at  which  time  he  began  to 
exhibit  symptoms  of  returning  consciousness ;  and  we 
sent  off  for  the  doctor  again. 

Mrs.  Carter,  Charley,  and  I  sat  in  the  room  with  him, 
though  one  or  the  other  of  us  frequently  left  his  side 
to  convey  tidings  of  his  condition  to  the  girls,  who 
were  naturally  anxious  to  know  how  matters  were 
going  with  him.  A  little  after  eleven,  after  turning 
uneasily  from  side  to  side  for  some  time,  he  awoke. 
Mrs.  Carter  arose  softly,  and  going  to  the  bedside  and 
leaning  over  him,  asked  if  he  wanted  anything ;  and 
he  called  for  a  glass  of  water.  He  barely  moistened 
his  lips,  however,  and  then,  looking  from  one  to  another 
of  us  in  a  bewildered  way,  and  scanning  the  room  with 
feverish  eyes,  he  raised  his  head  from  the  pillow  and 
asked,  with  a  puzzled  look,  "  Where  am  I  ?" 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Carter,  gently ;  "  you  aro 
among  friends." 

"Ah,  thanks!"  said  he;  and  his  head  falling  back 
upon  the  pillow,  he  was  silent  for  a  little  while.  "  I 
have  been  hurt  somehow,  have  I  not?"  he  asked,  at 
last. 

"  Yes,  you  were  hurt  trying  to  save  others." 

"  Oh,  yes !     It  seems  to  me  that  I  tried  to  stop  a  run- 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  89 

away  team,  but  they  knocked  me  down  and  went  on. 
Or  did  not  some  one  else  stop  them  ?  I  remember  see 
ing  the  ladies  leap  out  and  one  of  them  fell,  and  there 
was  a  crowd  of  people,  and  some  of  them  lifted  me  up." 

"Yes,  and  brought  you  in  here;  but  you  mustn't 
talk." 

"  Well,  I  won't  talk  any  more,"  said  he,  closing  his 
eyes. 

"  That's  right.  Lie  quietly  where  you  are,  and  after 
a  while  you  will  go  to  bed  and  have  a  good  night's  rest, 
and  will  wake  up  strong  in  the  morning." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  he,  "  I  shall  be  all  right  in  the  morn 
ing."  But,  opening  his  eyes  wide,  he  began  to  stare 
around  the  room.  "  Where  am  I  ?  This  is  not  my 
room,"  said  he,  with  rather  a  wild  look ;  and  he  tried 
to  rise  on  his  elbow,  but  fell  back  with  an  expression  of 
pain  on  his  face,  closed  his  eyes,  and  lay  motionless  for 
a  little  while.  Presently  he  opened  them  again.  "I 
don't  know  this  room'!"  And  his  eyes  ranged  up  and 
down  and  from  face  to  face  with  a  sort  of  glare.  Mrs. 
Carter  gave  us  an  anxious  look.  She  arose,  and,  drawing 
her  chair  alongside  the  bed,  began  passing  her  fingers 
through  his  hair.  Immediately  the  wild  look  passed 
out  of  -his  eyes,  and  his  face  was  suffused  with  a  smile 
of  infantile  sweetness. 

"  You  must  keep  quiet,"  said  Mrs.  Carter. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  simply. 

Suddenly  he  started  up  with  staring  eyes,  and  cried 
out,  "There  they  come!  There  they  come!  Molly! 
Take  Laura !  MoTly  !  Quick  I  Quick !  Get  out  of  the 
way !  Ah !  I  missed  'em !"  and  he  fell  back  with  a 
groan. 

Just  then  the  doctor  entered.  Mrs.  Carter  touched 
her  head. 

"  That's  nothing !"  replied  the  doctor,  in  a  cheery 
voice.  He  was  a  large  man,  with  a  large  head,  covered 
not  so  much  with  auburn  hair  as  with  a  tawny  ma«e. 
His  face,  too,  was  leonine  in  its  strength,  and  his  step 
light  and  springy;  and  he  came  into  a  sick-room  with 
an  air  which  seemed  to  say  that  when  he  entered  by 
the  door  disease  had  to  fly  out  by  the  way  of  the  win- 

8* 


90  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

dow,  or  else  be  would  know  the  reason  why.  He 
walked  straight  up  to  the  sufferer  and  placed  his  hand 
upon  his  forehead.  The  Don  gave  him  a  perplexed 
look,  which  passed  away,  however,  when  the  doctor 
began  to  feel  his  pulse.  The  firm  and  confident  look  of 
the  doctor  seemed  to  give  the  patient  control  of  his 
faculties. 

"Your  head  aches?" 

"  Badly." 

"  Of  course.     Any  pain  elsewhere  ?" 

"  Whenever  I  move  there  are  excruciating  pains  in 
ray  right  side." 

"  We  must  look  into  that.  Mrs.  Carter,  you  will 
please  retire.  By  the  way,  please  send  me  one  of  Mr. 
Carter's  night-shirts.  We  will  now  undress  you,"  said 
he  to  the  Don,  "and  see  what's  wrong  with  that  right 
side  of  yours.  Then  we  shall  tuck  you  away  snugly  in 
bed,  and  you  will  wake  up  to-morrow  a  new  man." 

"  Thanks,"  said  the  Don,  smiling  in  sympathy  with 
the  cheerful  tone  of  his  physician. 

The  examination  over,  the  doctor  wrote  his  prescrip 
tions,  and,  before  taking  his  leave,  suggested  that  one 
of  us  should  sit  up  with  the  patient,  as  his  flightiness 
was  likely  to  return  during  the  night,  while  the  other 
made  himself  comfortable  on  a  lounge  till  he  was 
needed  as  a  relief.  Giving  us  his  final  directions,  he 
left  the  room  ;  but  no  sooner  had  he  emerged  into  the 
upper  hall  than  he  was  surrounded  by  Mrs.  Carter  and 
the  three  girls,  Mary  having  decided  to  pass  the  night 
with  her  friends. 

'Is  he  badly  hurt?" 

'  Yes,  badly." 

'Dangerously?" 

'  His  body  is  black  and  blue  ;  there  is  an  ugly  lump 


on 


the  back  of  his  head,  and — " 


And  what?" 

He  has  three  ribs  broken." 
'  Oh!"  cried  the  girls  in  unison. 
'Do  you  think,  doctor,"  asked  Lucy,  with  trembling 
lips,  "  he  will — "  but  she  could  not  speak  the  word. 
"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  and  the  doctor  snapped  his  fingers. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  91 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  thankful !" 

"Now  be  off  to  bed,  every  one  of  you!"  said  the 
doctor,  with  a  certain  jolly  imperiousness.  "  Scamper !" 
And  he  shook  his  tawny  mane.  "  No  doubt  there  are 
plenty  of  fellows  who  would  gladly  die  for  you,  but  I 
intend  to  pull  this  one  through.  Good-night.  Go  and 
dream  of  the  hero.  Of  course  you  are  all  in  love  with 
him.  Good-night."  And  with  a  courtly  bow  he  took 
his  leave. 


CHAPTEE  XII. 

A  FEW  days  after  this,  when  Mrs.  Carter  entered  the 
Don's  room,  before  going  down  to  breakfast,  to  see  how 
he  was  getting  on,  she  found  him  entirely  free  from 
fever  and  his  head  clear  once  more.  It  was  then  that, 
for  the  first  time,  she  made  him  understand  that  the 
house  in  which  he  was  lying  was  the  one  in  front  of 
which  he  had  so  often  met  little  Laura. 

"  You  must  know  we  have  often  played  the  spy  upon 
you  from  our  window  while  you  were  talking  to  her." 

"  Indeed !"  said  he,  coloring.  "  You  must  have 
thought—" 

"  We  thought  none  the  worse  of  you,  I  can  assure 
you." 

"  How  strange  my  conduct  must  have  appeared  to 
you !  But  had  you  only  known — however — "  And  he 
suddenly  checked  himself. 

"Do  you  know  that  your  condition  has  been  criti 
cal?"  said  she,  changing  the  subject.  "  During  the  first 
few  days  we  were  very  uneasy  about  you." 

"  Few  days !  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  I  have 
been  lying  here  several  days?" 

"  Yes ;  the  accident  occurred  on  Saturday,  and  this 
is  Thursday  morning." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?" 

"Yes;  but  you  have  been  delirious,  and  of  course 
could  know  nothing  of  the  lapse  of  time.  You  can 
imagine  what  our  feelings  were,  doubtful  as  we  were 


92  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

as  to  the  result  of  your  injuries.  There  you  lay,  suffering 
from  possibly  fatal  injuries,  while,  owing  to  the  disor 
dered  condition  of  your  brain,  we  could  in  no  possible 
way  learn  from  you  the  address  of  your  friends, — you 
remember,  Mr.  Frobisher, — nor  write  them  of  your  con 
dition."  The  Don's  face  grew  clouded,  as  Charley's 
quick  eyes  perceived ;  but  Mrs.  Carter's  being  fixed  upon 
Charley  for  the  moment,  she  did  not  remark  the  change. 
(I  was  getting  a  nap  in  an  adjoining  room.)  "  I  am 
sure,"  continued  she,  "  I  cannot  explain  why  I  felt  so, 
for  I  did  all  I  could,  even  insisting,  one  night,  when 
the  doctor  pronounced  your  condition  exceedingly  crit 
ical,  upon  Mr.  Frobisher's  looking  through  your  pockets 
for  letters  or  other  sources  of  information ;  but  I  could 
not  help  repeating  and  repeating  to  myself,  What  will 
his  mother  say  when  she  learns  that  we —  Ah,  you  are 
suffering  again.  "Well,  we  must  not  talk  any  more  just 
now.  You  will  be  better  after  breakfast.  You  can 
take  some  breakfast,  can  you  not?  No?  But  I  shall 
send  up  some  toast,  may  I  not?  Yes?  Ah,  that's 
right.  It  will  do  you  good ;  and  little  Laura  shall  be 
allowed  now  to  pay  you  the  visit  she  has  so  often 
begged  for." 

"Little  Laura!  Ah,  send  her  in  right  now, — do, 
please." 

Charley  went  to  the  door  and  called  her,  and  soon 
her  little  feet  were  heard  pattering  along  the  hall ;  but 
reaching  the  door,  and  seeing  the  Don  lying  in  bed, 
and  so  pale  and  scarred,  she  stood  abashed  and  hesi 
tating  upon  the  threshold,  with  one  rosy  finger  in  her 
mouth, 

"  Come  in,  little  Sunbeam,"  said  he ;  and  she  began 
to  advance  slowly — a  step  and  then  a  halt — till  she 
reached  the  middle  of  the  room,  when  with  a  bound 
and  a  bright  smile  she  sprang  towards  him,  crying, 
"  Here's  some  flowers  I  brought  you.  I  saw  those  bad 
horses  run  over  you,  and  I  cwied." 

"Did  you?"  said  he,  with  a  grateful  smile.  "I  be 
lieve  you  are  the  best  friend  I  have  in  the  world."  And 
he  took  her  hands  in  his  and  patted  them  gently. 
"  Have  you  had  your  breakfast  ?" 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  93 

"No,  ma'am;  Molly  is  going  to  get  me  some." 
"  Won't  you  take  your  breakfast  in  here  with  me  ? 
We'll  have  a  nice  time  together." 

"  Oh,  may  I  take  my  breakfast  with  Don  Miff?" 

"  Yes,  darling."  And  Laura  skipped  out  of  the  room. 
"You  cannot  imagine,"  continued  Mrs.  Carter,  smiling, 
"  how  all  of  us  were  puzzled  by  that  name  which  Laura 
has  just  used, — Don  Miff.  She  came  in  one  evening 
and  said  that  that  was  your  name ;  and  do  you  know 
we  were  all  so  stupid  that  we  could  not  imagine  what 
was  the  English  of  it  till  Mr.  Whacker  met  you  and 
told  us.  '  Don,'  you  will  observe,  has  a  decidedly 
Spanish  air;  but  what  nationality  did  'Miff'  indi 
cate  ?" 

"  Don  Miff,  Don  Miff,"  repeated  he,  smiling.  «  Well, 
that  has  a  decidedly  droll  sound  when  seriously  spoken 
as  a  man's  name.  And  Mr.  Whacker  told  you  that  it 
was,  being  interpreted,  plain  John  Smith." 

"  Yes;  and,  by  the  way,  it  occurs  to  me  that  perhaps 
you  would  like  to  know  who  I  am.  I  am  Mrs.  Carter" 
(the  Don  tried  to  bow),  "  and  that  gentleman  seated 
by  the  window,  who  has  nursed  you  so  faithfully" 
(Charley  arose),  "  is  Mr.  Charles  Frobisher,  of  Leices 
ter  County." 

Charley  came  forward  and  extended  his  hand. 

"Mr.  Charles  Frobisher!"  echoed  the  Don,  in  a 
startled  tone,  giving  Charley  a  quick  and  concentrated 
glance ;  and  then,  as  if  recovering  himself,  he  took  the 
proffered  hand,  and  said,  "Ah,  Mr.  Frobisher,  I  am 
extremely  indebted  to  you." 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  Charley.  "I  could  not  do  too 
much  for  one  who  saved  the  lives,  as  you  doubtless  did, 
of  three  of  my  friends." 

"  May  I  ask  whom  I  so  fortunately  saved,  as  you  are 
so  good  as  to  say  ?" 

"  In  the  first  place,  Mrs.  Carter's  daughter  Alice." 

"  My  only  child,"  added  Mrs.  Carter,  averting  her 
face. 

"And  with  her  was  Miss  Lucy  Poythress,  daughter 
of  a  valued  neighbor  of  mine." 

"  Little  Laura's  sister,"  explained  Mrs.  Carter. 


94  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Don,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
ceiling. 

"And  my  friend  Jack  Whacker,  whom  I  have  long — 
in  default  of  other — looked  upon  as  a  younger  brother. 
So  you  see  that  when  we  come  to  speak  of  obligation, 
the  boot  is  on  the  other — " 

"Don  Miff,  here  turns  Molly  with  my  bekfuss," 
chirped  little  Laura,  skipping  into  the  room. 

"Ah,"  said  Mrs.  Carter,  rising,  "I  must  send  you 
yours,  Mr.  Smith.  Mr.  Frobisher,  you  may  leave  your 
patient  to  Molly  and  Laura ;  so  join  us  at  breakfast. 
No ;  we  will  let  Mr.  Whacker  sleep  after  his  vigils  as 
long  as  he  can.  Now,  Laura,  you  must  take  good  care 
of  Mr.  Smith." 

That  morning  Mary,  as  was  her  wont,  came  across 
the  street  to  inquire  after  the  Don,  and  found  the 
family  lingering  around  the  breakfast-table ;  and  the 
girls  had  hastened  to  tell  her  of  the  improved  condition 
of  the  patient.  Mr.  Carter  and  Chai'ley  had  lit  their 
pipes,  and  there  was  a  lively  clatter  of  female  voices. 

"  trirls,"  said  Mrs.  Carter,  rising,  "  I  am  going  up 
stairs  now  to  look  after  our  invalid,  and  I  think  I  shall 
have  some  news  for  you  when  I  come  down." 

"I  can't  imagine  what  you  expect  to  ascertain,"  said 
Alice,  "  unless  it  be  how  many  slices  of  toast  Mary's 
starry-eyed  one  has  consumed." 

"  You  see,"  continued  Mrs.  Carter,  smiling,  "  it  is 
proper,  now  that  he  has  recovered  the  use  of  his  facul 
ties,  to  write  to  his  friends  to  let  them  know  where  and 
how  he  is.  They  must  be  terribly  uneasy,  whoever  they 
are.  But  I  cannot  write  to  them  without  first  learning 
of  him  their  names  and  addresses.  Do  you  see  ?" 

"  Capital !  and  perfectly  legitimate,"  cried  Alice. 
"And  mind,  mother,  just  so  soon  as  he  gives  you  the 
names  find  an  excuse — you  will  need  pen,  ink,  and 
paper,  you  know — find  an  excuse  and  fly  to  us, — yes,  fly, 
and  tell  us  all  about  it.  Don't  write  the  letters  fir^t, 
for  we  shall  be  positively  dying  to  know  who  he  is. 
Now  mind,  mother  dear,  fly  I" 

Charley  rose  hastily,  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his 
pipe,  and  laid  it  on  the  mantel-piece. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  95 

"  Won't  you  fill  up  ?"  said  Mr.  Carter. 

"Not  just  at  present,"  said  Charley,  looking  at  Mrs. 
Carter. 

"  Yery  well,"  said  Mrs.  Carter,  "  I  shall  fly,"  and  she 
looked  down  at  her  plump  figure  and  laughed ;  "  and 
do  try  to  live  till  I  get  back." 

"  May  I  accompany  you  ?"  asked  Charley. 

There  were  three  little  shrieks  from  the  girls. 

"  Talk  about  a  woman's  curiosity,"  exclaimed  Alice; 
and  they  all  lifted  up  their  hands  and  let  them  fall 
upon  the  table.  Charley,  who  was  just  passing  out 
into  the  hall,  turned  and  smiled.  It  was  the  answer 
that  he  returned  to  most  things  that  were  said  to 
him. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Mrs.  Carter,  turning  round  in 

the  hall,  "  when  I  come  to  think  of  it,  Mr.  Frobisher, 

it  seems  to  me  that  it  would  be  as  well  for  you  to  offer 

.  your  services  instead  of  me."    And  she  re-entered  the 

dining-room. 

Charley  stood  looking  down  upon  the  floor  and  twirl 
ing  his  thumbs. 

"  Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  be  perfectly  frank  ?"  said 
Charley,  looking  up. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Carter,  with  a  surprised  look; 
"  what  is  your  opinion  ?" 

"  That  neither  of  us  ask  the  names  and  addresses  of 
his  friends." 

"  Really  ?  Of  course,  if  you  have  any  reason  to 
think — if  you  know  anything — " 

"  I  know  nothing  whatever,  but — " 

"  But  what  ?"  gasped  the  girls. 

Charley  stood  silent  for  a  time,  stroking  his  yellow 
beard. 

"  Sphinx  'No.  2,"  said  Alice. 

A  gentle  ripple  passed  through  Charley's  moustache. 
He  began  to  twist  one  end  of  it.  "  It  may  be  all  imag 
ination,"  he  began,  "  but  I  fancied,  at  least,  that  when 
you  spoke  to  him  this  morning  of  his  mother — "  And 
he  paused. 

"Ah,  I  remember.     I  recollect  a  look  of  pain.     Yes, 


96  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

I  remember  perfectly, — his  face  clouded  up  instantly. 
Yes,  you  are  quite  right,  Mr.  Frobisher." 

"  Ho  always  is,"  whispered  Lucy  to  me,  with  a  smile. 

"  Always,"  said  I. 

Mary  gave  a  sigh.  "  Now,  girls,  I  suppose  we  are 
never  to  learn  who  this  Sphinx  is." 

"  Never,  never  on  earth,"  sighed  Alice,  in  return. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lucy,  "  we  shall  yet  know  him ;  I  feel 
that  we  shall." 

"You  always  were  a  dear,  encouraging  creature," 
said  Alice,  passing  her  arm  round  Lucy's  waist  and 
leaning  her  head  languidly  upon  her  shoulder.  "  I 
shall  never  forgive  you,  Mr.  Frobisher.  By  this  time, 
but  for  you — oh,  it  was  too  cruel!" 

"Never  despair!"  And  he  started  on  his  way  up 
stairs. 

Nothing  was  said  for  a  minute  or  so,  all  listening  to 
Charley's  retiring  footsteps. 

"  Mrs.  Carter,"  said  Mary,  "  Mr.  Frobisher  knows 
something  about  the  Don  that  we  do  not.  Don't  you 
think  so,  Mr.  Whacker  ?" 

I  had  come  in  for  my  breakfast  shortly  after  Mary 
arrived,  looking  very  sleepy  and  stupid. 

"  Hardly,  I  should  think.     How  could  he  ?" 

"And  then,"  said  Mary,  "if  ho  knew  anything  he 
would  have  told  Mr.  Whacker." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that." 

"You  don't  know  him,"  said  Lucy,  laughing.  "He 
is  an  odd  fish  if  ever  there  was  one.  I  never  could  see, 
though,  Mr.  Whacker,  why  people  should  say  ho  was  a 
woman-hater." 

"A  woman-hater!"  exclaimed  Mary,  looking  much 
interested ;  "  a  regular  misogynist  would  be  such  a 
piquant  character !" 

"  Yes,  I  have  heard  that  he  was.  Is  it  true,  Mr. 
Whacker  ?"  said  Alice. 

"Charley  a  woman-hater!"  said  I,  sleepily  reaching 
for  the  butter.  "No — more — than — I — am."  And  I 
gave  a  frightful  yawn. 

"  Ever  since  I  was  a  child,"  said  Alice,  gravely,  "  I 
have  longed  to  see  Mammoth  Cave.  My  curiosity  is 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  97 

now  gone.  I  hope  your  appetite  is  on  the  same  scale, 
Mr.  Whacker." 

"  You  must  excuse  me.  Remember  how  little  I  slept 
last  night." 

"It  is  such  a  disappointment  that  he  doesn't  hate 
women !"  said  Mary. 

"Romance!"  whispered  Alice;  for  which  Mary  gavo 
her  a  love-tap  on  the  cheek. 

"  Charley,  you  must  know,  is  an  eccentric,  and  it  is 
of  the  nature  of  eccentricities  to  grow,  especially  when 
remarked  upon.  He  was,  even  as  a  boy,  singularly 
taciturn,  and  this  ti'ait  having  been  often  alluded  to  by 
his  acquaintance,  I  think  he  has  grown  rather  proud 
of  it.  Rarely  opening  his  mouth,  when  he  does  speak 
his  language  is  apt  to  assume  a  sententious  and  epi 
grammatic  form  ;  and  certain  of  his  crisp  utterances 
about  women  having  been  repeated,  have  given  him  the 
reputation  of  hating  the  sex.  This  for  example :  Few 
ladies  are  gentlemen.  I  suppose,  too,  that  the  manner  of 
his  life  has  contributed  to  strengthen  this  impression. 
He  never  visits  young  ladies,  seeming  content  with  the 
society  of  my  grandfather  and  that  of  two  or  three  of 
the  elderly  people  among  his  neighbors." 

"  Why,  yes,"  interposed  Lucy,  "  if  he  hated  women, 
how  could  he  be  so  devoted  to  mother  as  he  is  ?  No 
weather  can  prevent  his  crossing  the  river  for  his  weekly 
visits  to  her." 

"  How  fond  he  must  be  of  your  mother!"  said  Mary, 
with  an  arch  look. 

"  Oh,"  replied  Lucy,  quietly,  "  I  am  not  the  attrac 
tion,  though  we  are  warm  friends.  His  visits  began 
when  I  was  ever  so  little ;  and  as  for  mother,  she  loves 
Mr.  Frobisher  as  dearly  as  though  he  were  her  own 
son.  But  you  know,"  said  she,  turning  to  me  with  a 
grave  look,  and  speaking  in  undertones,  "there  are 
peculiar  reasons  for  that." 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  "  I  have  heard." 

Lucy  sighed  and  was  silent. 

"But,  Mr.  Whacker,"  began  Alice,  "why  is  he  so 
silent  ?  You  can  see  he  is  very  intelligent.  His  smile 
is  singularly  subtle,  and  what  little  he  does  say  is  always 


98  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

admirably  well  said.  'A  bird  that  can  sing  and  won't,' 
you  know." 

"  Suppose  you  bring  him  out,"  said  I. 

"  Do  you  know  I  am  positively  afraid  of  him  ?" 

"The  idea  of  being  afraid  of  Mr.  Frobisher!"  ex 
claimed  Lucy. 

"  And  the  idea  of  Alice's  being  afraid  of  any  one !" 
chimed  in  Mary. 

"  But  I  am,"  rejoined  Alice.  "  That  way  he  has  of 
quietly  fixing  his  eyes  upon  you  while  you  are  talking, 
as  though  h^  were  serenely  looking  you  through  and 
through,  quite  upsets  me.  And  then  you  can't  for  the 
life  of  you  guess  what  he  thinks  of  you." 

"  Ah,"  said  I,  "  that's  the  trouble,  is  it  ?  You  would 
like  to  know  what  he  thinks  of  you?" 

"  I  didn't  say  that,"  said  she,  slightly  coloring.  "  I — " 

"  I'll  ask  him,"  said  I. 

"  I  said—" 

"  But  he  won't  tell  me,  I  know." 

«  What  I  said—" 

"  Sly  rogue  that  he  is,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  you — 
so  I  understood  you  to  say — all  the  time  that  you — even 
you — are  talking.  How  great  a  portion  of  his  time 
he—" 

"  Mr.  Whacker,  you  are  too  absurd  for  anything  1" 

"  However,"  said  I,  unwilling  to  tease  her  further, 
though  I  saw  what  delight  it  gave  her  mother  and 
Mary  to  see  Alice  put,  for  once,  on  the  defensive,  "  you 
do  my  friend  injustice.  I  assure  you  that,  seated  quietly 
in  the  Elmington  sitting-room,  before  a  bright  winter 
fire,  alone  with  my  grandfather  and  me,  Charley  is 
capable  of  becoming  a  veritable  chatterbox.  When  he 
is  in  the  vein,  there  seems  to  be  no  end  to  the  stream 
of  his  quaint,  subdued  humor.  He  reminds  me  of  the 
waters  of  a  cistern,  deep,  quiet,  unobtrusive,  but  there 
when  needed, — not  of  a  brook  that  goes  babbling  sweetly 
forever." 

"  For  example,"  said  Mrs.  Carter,  nodding  towards 
Alice. 

"  I  wish  you  would  persuade  him  to  do  eome  babbling 
for  us,"  said  she. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  99 

"  And  you,  meanwhile  ?" 

"  Ah,"  said  her  mother,  "  she  would  be  able  then  to 
enjoy  the  luxury  of  what  Sydney  Smith  called  an 
occasional  flash  of  silence." 


CHAPTEE   XIII. 

THE  Don  now  went  on  improving  steadily,  and  it 
was  not  very  long  before  his  jolly  doctor,  entering  the 
room  in  his  brisk,  cheery  way,  and  bringing  along  with 
him  much  of  the  freshness  of  the  crisp  October  morn 
ing,  told  his  patient  that  he  might  dress  and  sit  by  the 
window,  and  that  if  he  felt  able  to  do  so,  he  might,  the 
next  day,  go  down-stairs.  At  this  Mrs.  Carter,  who 
had  followed  the  doctor,  expressed  great  satisfaction ; 
when  the  Don  said  something  about  having  given 
enough  trouble  already,  and  asked  whether  he  would 
not  be  strong  enough,  probably,  to  go  down  to  his  own 
room. 

"  How  far  is  it  ?"  asked  the  doctor.  "  Where  is  your 
room  ?" 

"At  the  corner  of th  and  Main ;  ever  so  far,"  said 

Mrs.  Carter ;  "  but  far  or  near,  Mr.  Smith,  you  will  not 
go  there  yet.  It  is  simply  out  of  the  question."  To 
which  the  Don  smiled  his  acknowledgments. 

I  must  mention,  here,  that  after  the  conversation  re 
corded  in  the  last  chapter,  on  Mrs.  Carter's  going  up  to 
inquire  how  the  Don  had  enjoyed  his  breakfast,  he  had 
seemed  a  little  nervous.  It  was  obvious — so,  at  least, 
she  thought — that  he  feai'ed  that  she  was  going  to  pro 
pose  to  write  to  his  friends.  At  last  it  seemed  to  occur 
to  him,  as  a  kind  of  compromise,  that  he  would  give  a 
vague  sort  of  account  of  himself,  but  in  such  a  way  that 
it  would  be  understood  that  he  had  nothing  more  to  re 
port.  Actuated,  apparently,  by  this  motive,  and  spurred 
on  by  a  nervous  dread  of  a  point-blank  question  from 
Mrs.  Carter,  he  seized  every  pretext  for  saying  some 
thing  about  himself,  but  always  in  a  distant  and  shadowy 


100  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

kind  of  way.  For  example,  allusion  having  been  mado 
to  the  news  from  Europe,  he  hastened  to  say  that  he 
had  spent  much  of  his  life  there ;  and  this  bringing  up. 
very  naturally,  the  delights  of  travelling,  '.'Yes,"  said 
he,  "  it  is  very  pleasant  at  first,  but  after  a  while  one 
begins  to  feel,  as  he  wanders  from  capital  to  capital, 
that  he  is  on  a  sort  of  perpetual  picnic, — a  mere  butter 
fly, — and  a  weary  sense  of  the  aimlessness,  the  utter 
worthlessness,  of  his  life  begins  to  creep  over  him. 
After  all,  every  human  heart  feels,  sooner  or  later,  the 
need  of  a  home;  for  a  home  means  interests,  means 
duties,  means  affections ;  and  what  is  life  without  all 
these?" 

It  was  a  study,  watching  his  face  when  he  spoke  in 
this  way.  Beginning  with  a  low  voice  and  with  a 
studied  repose  of  manner,  the  mere  utterance  of  his 
thoughts  would  soon  hurry  him  past  self-control,  the 
glow  of  his  countenance  and  the  vibrating  intensity  of 
his  voice  breaking  through  the  crust  of  a  self-imposed 
calm,  when,  as  though  conscious  that  he  had  betrayed 
too  much  emotion,  he  would  abruptly  cease  speaking, 
and  remain  silent  till  he  felt  that  he  had  regained  com 
posure. 

"I  cannot  thank  you  sufficiently,  Mr.  Frobisher," 
said  Mrs.  Carter  one  day,  "  for  warning  me  not  to  ask 
him  about  his  home  and  friends." 

"  What  would  he  have  said,  mother?"  said  Alice.  "  I 
wish  you  had,  almost" 

"And  then,  perhaps,  we  might  have  known  some 
thing,"  said  Mary.  "I  declare  I  am  positively  con 
sumed  with  curiosity." 

"  Don't  speak  of  it,"  said  Alice.  "  Now  just  look  at 
that  provoking  Lucy.  Here  are  you  and  I,  Mary, 
wrought  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of  excitement  over 
this  enigma,  and  there  sits  Lucy,  as  composed  and 
self-contained  as — as — Neptune.  You  remember  his 
placidum  caput,  girls, — in  the  Virgil  class,  you  know." 

"  My  head  may  be  placidum,  but  it  is  more  than  my 
heart  is.  It  fairly  aches  with  longing  to  know  who  he 
is.  Do  you  know,  I  feel,  somehow,  as  though  he  was 
to  be  more  to  me  than  to  either  of  you  girls." 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  101 

"  What !''  said  Alice.  "  Have  not  I  long  since  claimed 
him?" 

It  was  on  one  of  the  occasions  above  alluded  to  that 
the  Don  mentioned  where  his  room  was  (hence  Mrs. 
Carter's  knowledge  of  its  location),  managing  to  throw 
out,  in  a  vague  way,  that  as  a  wanderer  about  the  earth 
he  had  chanced  to  find  himself  in  Richmond,  something 
in  his  manner  rendering  it  impossible  that  any  one 
should  ask  whence  he  came  or  whither  he  was  going. 
"  ISTow,  doctor,"  Mrs.  Carter  had  added  on  this  occasion, 
"  I  am  sure  that  you  will  say  that  it  would  be  very  unwise 
in  Mr.  Smith  to  forsake  his  nurse  and  his  present  quar 
ters  just  at  present.  True,  Mr.  Whacker  takes  Mr. 
Frobisher  off  to-night  down  to  his  rooms,  but  I  am  left. 
Besides,  down  there  on  Main  Street,  weak  as  you  are, 
and  all  alone  as  you  would  be,  there  is  no  telling  what 
might  happen."  And  she  looked  to  the  doctor  for  sup 
port. 

"  Of  course,"  said  he,  with  a  shake  of  his  head  that 
brought  the  waving  hair  down  over  his  forehead, — "of 
course  Mr.  Smith  will  remain  here  for  the  present." 

"  Well,  that  is  settled  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Carter. 

"One  must  obey  orders,  especially  when  they  are 
agreeable." 


CHAPTER  XIY. 

THIS  decree  of  the  doctor's  threw  the  household  into 
a  great  bustle.  I  was  requested  to  call  on  the  Don's 
landlord,  explain  his  long  absence,  and  have  his  trunk 
sent  up  to  Leigh  Street.  The  girls  were  in  a  great 
flutter  at  the  prospect  of  breakfasting  with  the  mys 
terious  stranger  next  morning ;  which  announcement 
they  had  no  sooner  heard  than  they  flew  across  the 
street  to  give  Mary  the  news ;  and  the  air  grew  misty 
with  interjections. 

"  We  have  arranged  it  all,  Mary.  Mr.  Whacker  and 
Mr.  Frobisher,  who,  as  you  know,  are  to  leave  our  house 
this  evening,  will  come  up  to  breakfast  with  the  Don, 

9* 


102  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFP. 

of  course,  and  you  will  just  make  the  party  complete. 
Proper?  Of  course,  Mary.  Why,  there  will  be  just 
one  apiece, — so  nice !  You  and  Mr.  Frobisher,  Lucy 
and — ahem ! — Mr.  Whacker,  and  the  Don  and  myself. 
No  !  that's  the  way  it  shall  be.  Of  course  I'll  let  you 
girls  look  at  him, — even  exchange  a  few  words  with  him, 
— but  1 1 — "  And  dropping  into  a  chair  by  a  table,  she 
made  as  though  mincing  at  an  imaginary  breakfast, 
whilst  ogling,  most  killingly,  an  invisible  gallant  by  her 
side. 

That  day,  the  girls  thought,  would  never  end.  They 
could  neither  talk  nor  think  of  anything  save  the 
coming  breakfast,  wandering  aimlessly  from  room  to 
room,  and  from  story  to  story,  romping,  yawning,  gig 
gling,  and  were  so  exhausted  by  nightfall  that  they  all 
went  to  bed  at  an  early  hour,  just  as  children  do  on 
Christmas  Eve,  to  make  the  morning  come  sooner. 

You  must  remember  that  they  were  hardly  eighteen 
years  of  age. 

The  morning  came.  Charley  and  I  met  Mary  at  the 
front  door  and  we  entered  together.  "  I  am  so  ex 
cited,"  said  she.  "  It  is  all  so  like  a  real  adventure." 

A  few  minutes  afterwards  Mrs.  Carter  begged  me  to 
go  up  and  assist  the  Don  down-stairs,  if  necessary.  He 
walked  down-stairs  very  well,  however,  and  we  entered 
the  dining-room,  where  I  expected  to  find  the  whole 
family,  but  the  girls  had  not  yet  put  in  an  appearance. 
Alice,  it  seems,  had  gotten  the  other  girls  into  so  hilarious 
a  state  by  her  mad  drolleries — enacting  scenes  that  were 
to  take  place  between  herself  and  the  Don — that  they 
had  to  remain  some  time  in  the  upper  chambers  in  order 
to  resume  control  of  their  countenances ;  and  her  per 
formances  in  the  halls  and  on  the  stairways  were  such 
that  they  had  to  call  a  halt  several  times  before  they 
reached  the  dining-room  door.  We  were  all  seated  at 
the  table,  and  breakfast  had  begun,  when  the  door  was 
partly  opened,  then  nearly  closed,  then  opened  a  little 
way  again,  while  a  faint  rustling  of  female  garments 
was  the  only  sound  that  broke  the  stillness.  Presently, 
Mary,  followed  by  Lucy,  popped  into  the  room  with  a 
suddenness  that  suggested  a  vigorous  push  from  some 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  103 

one  in  the  rear,  while  their  features,  of  necessity  in 
stantly  composed,  were  in  that  state  of  unstable  equi 
librium  which  may  be  observed  in  the  faces  of  boys 
when  the  teacher  reappears  in  the  school-room  after  a 
few  moments'  absence.  Alice  followed,  demure  as  a 
Quakeress. 

The  introductions  over,  and  Alice  and  Lucy  having 
thanked  the  Don  for  his  gallant  rescue  of  them  from 
danger,  the  girls  took  their  seats,  Alice  next  the  Don. 
It  will  be  easily  imagined  that,  under  the  peculiar  cir 
cumstances  of  the  case,  no  word,  no  gesture,  no  look 
of  our  new  friend  passed  unobserved.  No  bride,  com 
ing  among  her  husband's  relations,  was  ever  more 
searchingly  scrutinized.  Naturally,  we  compared  notes 
upon  the  first  occasion  that  offered,  and  it  was  interest 
ing  to  observe  that,  various  as  were  the  estimates  placed 
upon  our  enigma,  each  of  the  ladies  held,  in  the  main, 
to  her  first  impression.  It  is  no  secret,  in  fact,  that  if 
a  woman  sees  a  man  passing  in  front  of  a  window  at 
which  she  is  sitting,  or  hears  him  utter  three  sentences, 
the  impression  formed  upon  her  mind  is  often  next  to 
ineradicable. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Mrs.  Carter,  "  when  I  have 
seen  a  manner  so  elegant  and  distinguished.  It  shows 
the  combined  effect  of  gentle  birth  and  much  travel. 
How  charming — and  how  rare  nowadays — is  that  defer 
ence  towards  our  sex  that  he  manages  to  combine  with 
perfect  dignity  and  repose  of  manner!  By  the  way, 
Mr.  Whacker,  did  you  not  notice  how  subdued  Alice 
was  throughout  breakfast  ?  I  have  never  seen  her  so 
quiet  and  demure." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Alice,  "I  am  feeling  my  way. 
Wait  till  I  get  a  little  better  acquainted  with  him.  I 
must  say,  however,  that  I  don't  think  our  hero  promises 
much  in  the  way  of  fun.  I  doubt  whether  he  would 
know  a  joke  if  he  met  one  on  the  highway." 

"  No,"  said  Mary,  "  his  nature  is  too  absorbed,  too 
intense,  for—" 

"And  his  eyes  too  starry.  Did  you  not  observe, 
Mary,  how  they  dilated  when  first  they  bended  their 
light  on  the  dish  of  stewed  oysters?' 


104  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"Alice,  I  believe  that  if  you  could,  you  would  jest 
at  your  own  funeral." 

"  No ;  at  that  pageant  you  may  count  on  me  as  chief 
mourner." 

"  Oh,  Alice !"  said  Lucy,  reprovingly. 

"  Never  mind,  my  dear ;  I  am  not  so  wicked  as  I 
seem.  Besides,  I  am  rather  reckless  and  desperate  just 
at  this  moment." 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"All  my  aspirations  dashed  to  the  ground  during  one 
short  breakfast !"  Alice  rested  her  chin  upon  her  hand, 
and  gazed  pensively  upon  the  floor. 

"  What  new  farce  is  this?"  asked  Lucy,  amused. 

"  And  it  is  you  who  ask  me  that !"  And  Alice  raised 
her  eyes  with  a  sad,  reproachful  look  to  those  of  her 
friend.  "  And  you  call  it  a  farce  ?  You  /"  And  she 
sighed.  "  Of  course,"  resumed  Alice,  quickly  raising 
her  head  and  looking  from  face  to  face, — "of  course  you 
all  noticed  it.  It  was  perfectly  obvious.  Yes,  this  Miss 
from  the  rural  districts  has  swooped  down  and  carried 
off  the  prey  without  an  effort." 

"  I,  at  le.ast,"  said  Lucy,  coloring,  "  saw  nothing  of 
the  kind.  In  the  first  place,  I  sat  at  one  end  of  the 
table  and  he  at  the  other,  and  I  am  sure  I  hardly  ex 
changed  a  dozen  words  with  him." 

"Alas!"  sighed  Alice,  "it  is  precisely  there  that  the 
sting  lies.  I  sat  by  him  and  had  every  advantage  over 
you, — and  1  used  every  advantage.  Didn't  you  remark 
the  tone  in  which  I  called  his  attention  to  the  omelet  ? 
Could  a  siren  have  urged  upon  him,  more  seductively, 
a  second  cup  of  coffee  ?  And  how  gently  did  I  strive 
to  overwhelm  his  soul  with  buckwheat  cakes !  And 
was  the  marmalade  sweeter  than  the  murmur  in  which 
I  recommended  it  ?  And  yet," — Alice  paused  for  a 
lull  in  the  tumultuous  laughter, — "  and  yet,"  she  con 
tinued,  "  strive  as  I  would,  I  could  not  keep  his  eyes 
from  wandering  to  your  end  of  the  table." 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  said  Lucy,  wiping  her  eyes, "  that 
all  this  was  lost  on  me." 

"  And  then,"  added  Alice,  "  your  most — some  one  will 
please  attend  to  the  fat  lady ;  she  seems  in  a  fit — your 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  105 

most  trivial  remark,  even  though  not  addressed  to  him, 
Beemed  to  rivet  his  attention.  To  confess  the  humili 
ating  truth,  Mary,  I  don't  believe  he  would  recognize 
either  of  us,  should  he  meet  us  in  the  street ;  but  every 
lineament  of  Lucy's  face  is  graven — you  know  how 
they  say  it  in  novels.  It  is  a  regular  case  of  love  at 
first  sight,  my  dear." 

Alice's  eyes  ran  along  the  circle  of  faces  surround 
ing  her  as  she  spoke,  and  it  so  happened  that  when 
she  paused  at  the  words  "  my  dear"  she  was  looking 
Charley  full  in  the  face.  Charley,  as  I  have  before  re 
marked,  had  seen  very  little  of  young  ladies,  and  I  had 
several  times  observed  that  when  Alice  was  speaking 
in  her  sparkling  way  he  would  watch  her  all  the  while 
out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  with  an  expression  of 
wondering  interest.  Charley  rarely  laughed.  I  think 
his  self-control  in  this  regard  amounted  to  somewhat 
of  an  affectation,  and  he  had  acquired  a  sort  of  serene 
moderation  even  in  his  smiles.  But  Alice's  bright,  rat 
tling  talk  seemed  to  have  a  sort  of  fascination  for  him, 
and  to  hurry  him  out  of  himself,  as  it  were.  And  on 
this  occasion  I  had  been  slyly  watching  his  features 
moving  in  sympathy  with  the  changing  expression  of 
her  exceedingly  mobile  countenance.  Entirely  ab 
sorbed  as  he  was  in  watching  the  play  of  her  counte 
nance,  and  thinking  of  I  know  not  what,  when  he 
found  her  bright  eyes  resting  full  upon  him,  and  himself 
seemingly  addressed  as  "my  dear,"  he  was  suddenly 
startled  out  of  his  revery,  and  not  knowing  what  to 
say: 

"I  beg  pardon,"  said  he,  quickly,  "  were  you  speak 
ing  to  me  ?" 

A  shout  of  laughter  greeting  this  ingenuous  ques 
tion,  Charley's  face  reddened  violently,  Alice's  gener 
ally  imperturbable  countenance  answering  with  a  re 
flected  glow. 

"Not  exactly,"  said  she;    "my  remarks  were  ad 
dressed  to  the  company  at  large." 

"  Oh  !"  said  he,  blushing  more  deeply  still. 

"But,  Mr.  Frobisher,"  continued  Alice,  willing  to 
relieve  the  embarrassment  of  the  woman-hater,  "  don't 


106  THE   STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

you  agree  with  me  ?  Wasn't  the  Don  obviously  capti 
vated  by  Lucy  ?" 

"  I  am  sure,  if  he  was  not,  it  would  be  hard  to  under 
stand  the  reason  why.  But  the  fact  is,  Mrs.  Carter's 
capital  breakfast — " 

"Oh,  you  monster  1" 

Half  an  hour  later,  finding  myself  alone  with  Lucy : 
"  So  you  do  not  claim  or  even  admit,"  I  happened  cas 
ually  to  remark,  "  that  you  have  made  a  conquest." 

"No,  indeed!"  replied  she,  with  a  frank  look  in  her 
eyes.  "  Far  from  it.  Alice  is  all  wrong." 

"  But  Miss  Alice  was  not  alone  in  her  observation  of 
the  facts  of  the  case.  Wo  all  saw  what  she  described. 
I  did  most  certainly." 

"  And  so  did  I." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  I  saw,  of  course,  how  often  he  glanced  towards  me, 
and  I  was  conscious  that  even  while  I  was  speaking  to 
others  his  eyes  were  upon  me.  But  there  are  looks 
and  looks.  You  men  don't  understand  anything  about 
Buch  matters." 

"  And  where,  pray,  did  you  learn  all  this  mysterious 
language  of  looks  and  looks  ?" 

"  I  am  a  woman." 

"So  is  Alice." 

"Ah,  yes;  but,  Alice — well,  girls  like  to  say  that 
kind  of  thing  to  each  other, — it's  encouraging,  you 
know.  Why  do  you  smile?  It  is  pleasant,  of  course, 
to  be  told  that  we  have  destroyed  some  man's  peace 
of  mind,  though  we  know  it  to  be  highly  improbable 
in  point  of  fact.  I  shall  reciprocate,  at  the  first  oppor 
tunity,  by  telling  Alice  with  what  sweet  pain  she  has 
filled  the  breast  of  dear  good  Mr.  Frobisher." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  I  exclaimed.  "  That  would  be 
too  good!  The  woman-hater!  Capital!" 

"  Stranger  things  have  happened.  Did  you  not  see 
how  he  blushed  just  now?  But  as  to  the  Don,  do  you 
know  he  is  a  greater  mystery  to  me  now  than  ever  ? 
Every  woman  instinctively  knows  what  a  man's  looks 
mean." 

"  Well,  what  did  the  Don's  glances  signify  ?" 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  107 

"I  cannot  for  the  life  of  me  imagine." 

"  What !  Although  every  woman  instinctively  knows, 
and  so  forth." 

"Ah,"  said  she,  smiling,  "I  meant  that  they  always 
knew  when  the  looks  meant — pshaw  1  you  know  very 
well  what  I  mean." 

"  You  would  have  me  to  understand  that  the  Don's 
looks,  though  they  meant  something,  did  not  mean 
nascent  love." 

"Yes.  Do  you  not  remember  that  sudden  and  in 
tense  look  he  gave  me  when  we  met  him  on  the  side 
walk  ?  Well,  when  I  came  to  turn  that  incident  over 
in  my  mind  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  mistook 
me  for  some  one  else.  Now  I  am-  all  at  sea  again.  He 
knows,  now,  that  I  am  Lucy  Poythress,  and  not  any 
one  else." 

<  Naturally." 

<  Don't  be  silly,— and  still—" 

<  And  still  ?" 

'  And  yet — oh,  you  know  what  I  mean." 

'  Upon  my  word  I  do  not." 

'  Well,  he  seemed  to  me  to  be  studying  me  as  a  kind 
of  problem, — no,  not  that, — he  appeared — ah,  this  is 
my  idea — he  seemed  to  me  to  survey  me  just  as  I  have 
seen  mothers  look  at  their  sons  after  a  session's  ab 
sence.  '  Has  he  grown  ?  Has  he  changed  ?  Has  he 
improved  ?'  Do  I  make  myself  clear  ?" 

"  Perfectly." 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?  What  do  I  mean, 
then  ?" 

"I  gather  from  all  you  say  that  your  impression  is 
that  this  Mystery,  this  Enigma,  this  Sphinx,  this  Don 
Miff — longs  to  be  a  mother  to  you." 

"Mr.  W-h-a-c-k-e-r!" 

I  could  never  understand  why  a  man  must  not  laugh 
at  his  own  witticisms ;  and  my  hilarity  on  this  occa 
sion  immediately  drew  the  other  girls  and  Mrs.  Carter 
into  the  front  parlor,  where  Lucy  and  I  were  sitting. 
By  rapidly  interposing  a  succession  of  chairs  between 
that  young  woman  and  myself,  I  succeeded  in  giving 
the  ladies  an  enlarged  and  profusely  illustrated  edition 


108  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

of  Lucy's  views  of  the  state  of  the  Don's  feelings  and 
intentions  in  regard  to  herself,  when,  seizing  my  hat, 
I  fled,  leaving  the  three  girls  in  uproarious  glee,  and 
Mrs.  Carter  collapsed  in  an  arm-chair,  weeping,  while 
voiceless  laughter  rippled  along  her  rotund  form.  As 
I  passed  in  front  of  the  window  Lucy's  head  appeared. 
"  Say  your  prayers  twice  to-night,"  said  she. 


CHAPTEK  XY. 

"JACK,"  said  Charley  that  night  at  my  rooms,  "have 
you  any  message  for  the  old  gentleman  ?  I  am  off  for 
home  to-morrow." 

"  Indeed !     Why  this  sudden  resolution  ?" 
"  Too  many  people  in  .Richmond  for  me." 
"  It  seems  to  me  that  you  like  some  of  them  a  good 
deal.     Isn't  she  bright  ?" 

"  P-p-p-pass  me  the  tobacco."  He  filled  his  pipe  very 
deliberately  and  walked  across  the  room.  "  Where  do 
you  keep  your  matches  ?  Ah,  here  they  are.  Who," 
added  he,  striking  one — "puff — do  you — puff,  puff — 
think  so  —  puff,  puff,  puff — bright?  Confound  the 
thing! — puff— puff — it  has  gone  out!"  And  he  struck 
another.  Lighting  his  pipe,  and  throwing  himself  upon 
a  lounge,  he  looked  the  picture  of  content. 

"  Say,  old  boy,"  said  I,  "own  up.    Those  hazel  eyes — " 
"  Do  you  know,  Jack-Whack"  (whenever  he  called 
me  that  he  was  in  the  best  possible  humor),  "that 
you  are  making  a  howling  ass  of  yourself?"     And  ho 
shot  a  pillar  of  smoke  straight  towards  the  ceiling,  fol 
lowing  its  eddying  curves  with  contemplative  eyes. 
"  '  Howling  ass'  is  a  mixed  metaphor." 
"  Yes,  but  an  unmixed  truth,  my  boy.     Did  it  ever 
occur  to  you,  Jack,"  said  he,  removing  the  Powhatan 
pipe,  with  its  reed-root  stem,  from  his  lips,  "  that  cigars 
are   essentially  vulgar?     You   never  thought  of  it? 
But  they  are.    So  are  dress-coats.    You  have  only  to 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  109 

put  them  into  marble  to  see  it.  Look  at  the  statue  of 
Henry  Clay  in  the  Square.  Was  ever  anything  so 
absurd !  Posterity  will  inevitably  regard  Henry  as  an 
ass." 

"  Of  the  howling  variety  ?" 

"  Of  course.  Now,  just  picture  to  yourself  Phidias' 
Jove  with  a  cigar  stuck  into  his  mouth." 

Charley  shot  upwards  a  circling  wreath  of  smoke, 
watched  it  till  it  dissipated  itself,  and  then  turned  his 
head,  with  a  little  jerk,  towards  me:  "H'm?  How 
would  the  Olympian  Zeus  look  with  a  Parian  Partaga 
between  his  ambrosial  lips  ?" 

"  I  have  seen  lips  that — " 

"  Howling  and  so  forth."  And  he  turned  over  on  his 
back  and  commenced  pulling  away  at  his  pipe. 

"  I  think  she  likes  you." 

Charley  pursed  up  his  mouth,  and,  taking  aim,  with 
one  eye,  at  a  spot  on  the  ceiling,  projected  at  it  a  fine 
spun  thread  of  smoke.  I  detected  a  tremor  in  his 
extended  lips. 

"  I  may  say  I  know  she  likes  you." 

With  an  explosive  chuckle  the  pucker  instantly  dis 
solved.  I  had  taken  him  at  a  disadvantage.  His 
features  snapped  back  into  position  as  suddenly  as 
those  of  a  rubber  mask. 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  he,  "how  great  a  solace  and 
bulwark  a  pipe  would  have  been  to  Socrates,  during  his 
interviews  with  Xantippe, — and  it  made  me  smile." 

"Yes,"  said  I,  carelessly. 

"  Yes  I"  said  he,  rising  up  on  his  elbow, — "what  do 
you  mean  by  '  yes '  ?" 

"I  merely  meant  to  agree  with  you,  that  a  pipe 
would  have  been  a  great  solace  and  bulwark  to  Socrates 
during  his  interviews  with  Xantippe." 

He  fell  back  on  the  lounge.  "  Let's  go  to  bed,"  said 
he. 

"  Good  I"  said  I ;  and  I  began  to  remove  my  coat. 
"  So  the  Don  is  to  leave  the  Carters'  to-morrow  and  go 
to  his  own  quarters." 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  rising  from  the  lounge.  "  I  like  that 
chap." 

10 


110  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

That  was  a  great  deal  for  Charley  to  say.  It  was 
the  ver}-  first  expression  of  his  sentiments  towards  the 
Don. 

"  I  am  glad  you  do,"  said  I ;  "  I  thought  you  did." 

"  Yes,  he  is  a  man.  Do  you  know  what  I  am  going 
to  do  ?  I  shall  invite  him  to  Elmington.  Uncle  Tom 
will  like  him.  He  says  he  is  fond  of  hunting,  and  this 
is  just  the  time  for  that ;  and  he  will  be  strong  enough 
soon.  Suppose  we  go  up  to-morrow,  before  I  leave 
town,  and  invite  him  jointly.  You  will  be  down  for  the 
Christmas  holidays,  you  know.  By  the  way,  I  hope 
he  will  accept?" 

"  I  am  quite  sure  of  it.  He  has  betrayed  an  unac 
countable  interest  in  Leicester  County  on  every  occa 
sion  that  I  have  alluded  to  it,  notwithstanding  an 
obvious  effort  to  appear  indifferent.  He  has  a  way  of 
throwing  out  innocent,  careless  little  questions  about 
the  county  and  the  people  that  has  puzzled  me  not  a 
little.  Who  the  deuse  is  he  ?" 

"  Roll  into  that  bed !  it  is  too  late  for  conundrums. 
Here  goes  for  the  light !"  And  he  blew  it  out. 

"Jack!"  said  he,  about  half  an  hour  afterwards; 
"  Jack,  are  you  asleep  ?" 

"H'm?"  ' 

"  Are  you  asleep  ?" 

"  H'm  ?  H'm  ?    Confound  it,  yes  /" 

"  No,  you're  not !" 

"  Well,  I  was!"    And  I  groaned. 

"Jack,  I  suppose  Uncle  Tom  will  have  his  usual 
Christmas  party  of  girls  and  young  men  at  Elmington 
this  Christmas  ?" 

"  S'pose  so,  umgh  1" 

"  1  say—" 

"  Don't  1  Don't !  Those  are  my  ribs !  Good  Lord, 
man !  you  don't  know  how  sleepy  I  am.  What  on  earth 
are  you  talking  about  ?" 

"  Do  you  know  what  girls  Uncle  Tom  is  going  to 
have  to  spend  Christmas  with  us  this  winter?" 

"  And  you  woke  me  up  to  ask  me  such  a  question  as 
that?  Thunder  1  And  you  see  him  to-morrow  even 
ing,  too!  Oh,  I  understand,"  said  I,  being  at  last  fully 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  HI 

awake,  and  I  burst  out  laughing.  "  You  want  me  to 
say  something  about  Alice  with  the  merry-glancing 
hazel  eyes." 

"  About  whom  ?  Alice  ?  That's  absurd, — perfectly 
absurd !  Why,  she  thinks  me  an  idiot  because  I  don't 
jabber  like  one  of  you  lawyers.  All  women  do.  Un 
less  you  gabble,  gabble,  gabble,  you  are  a  fool.  They 
are  all  alike.  A  woman  is  always  a  woman  j  a  man 
may  be  a  philosopher." 

"  My  dear  boy,  your  anxieties  are  misplaced." 

"  Who  spoke  of  anxieties  ?" 

"  Don't  you — a  philosopher — know  that  talkative 
girls  prefer  taciturn  men  ?  I  am  perfectly  certain  that 
Alice  thinks  your  silence  admirable, — dotes  on  it,  in 
fact." 

"  Jack- Whack,"  said  Charley,  rising  up  in  bed  and — 
rare  sight — though  I  felt  rather  than  saw  or  heard  it — 
shaking  with  laughter,  "you  are  the  most  immeasur 
able,  the  most  unspeakable,  the  most — " 

Down  came  a  pillow  on  my  head.  Down  it  came 
again  and  again  as  I  attempted  to  rise.  We  grappled, 
and  for  a  few  minutes  no  two  school-boys  could  have 
had  a  more  boisterous  romp. 

"Now  just  look  at  this  bed,"  said  Charley,  out  of 
breath  ;  "  see  what  you  have  done !"  And  he  fell  back 
exhausted,  as  well  with  the  struggle  as  from  his  un 
wonted  laughter.  "We  have  not  had  such  a  tussle 
since  I  used  to  tease  you  as  a  boy.  Whew !  Let's  go 
to  sleep  now." 

"  She's  a  bewitching  creature." 

"Idiot!"  said  Charley,  turning  his  back  to  me  with 
a  laugh,  and  settling  himself  for  the  night. 

"  Poor  fellow  1  Well,  he  got  me  to  pronounce  her 
name,  at  any  rate,  by  his  manoeuvring." 

"Do  you  know  this  is  rather  coolish?  Where  on 
earth  are  the  blankets?  Find  one,  won't  you?  and 
throw  it  over  me." 

"Here  they  are,  on  the  floor!  There!  Sleep  well, 
poor  boy  I 

'  Oh  don't  you  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt  ? 
Sweet  Alice  with  h-a-i-r  so  brown.' " 


112  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"You  rhyme  with  the  sinners  who  came  to  scoff,  but 
remained  to  pray.  You  seem  to  yourself  to  sing,  but 
appear  to  me  to  b-b-b-bray." 

"  Good !     There  is  life  in  the  old  boy  yet  I" 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

morning  Charley  and  I  called  at  the  Carters' 
to  give  the  Don  the  invitation  to  visit  Elmington,  but 
found  he  had  gone  out  for  his  first  walk  since  his  acci 
dent,  to  test,  at  Mrs.  Carter's  instance,  his  strength 
before  going  into  his  own  quarters.  Charley  was  com 
pelled,  therefore,  to  leave  the  city  without  seeing  him. 
In  the  evening  I  called  at  his  rooms.  Knocking  at  his 
sitting-room  door,  I  was  invited  to  enter,  and  found  him 
sitting  by  a  table  reading  a  small  book,  which  he  closed, 
but  held  in  his  hand  as  he  rose  and  came  forward  to 
greet  me. 

"Reading?"  began  I,  bowing  and  glancing  casually 
towards  the  little  book,  the  back  of  which  was  turned 
away  from  me. 

"  Yes,"  replied  he,  but  without  looking  at  the  book ; 
"getting  through  an  evening  alone  I  find  rather  dull 
work  after  my  recent  charming  experience.  Take  a 
Beat.  Will  you  have  a  pipe,  or  do  you  prefer  a  cigar? 
A  pipe  ?  You  will  find  the  tobacco  very  good."  And 
walking  to  a  small  set  of  shelves  near  the  door,  he 
placed  the  little  book  upon  it, — a  circumstance  too  triv 
ial  to  mention,  did  it  not  afford  a  characteristic  exam 
ple  of  the  quiet  but  effectual  way  the  Don  had  of  nip 
ping  in  the  bud  any  conversation  which  was  about  to 
take  a  line  he  did  not  wish  it  to  follow.  I  suppose  we 
had  been  chatting  for  half  an  hour  before  I  alluded  to 
my  errand. 

"Mr.  Frobisher  wished  to  see  me  particularly,  you 
say?" 

"  Yes ;  Charley  heard  you  say  one  day  that  you  were 
fond  of  shooting ;  and  as  there  is  fine  sport  to  be  had 


THE  STORY   OF  DON  MIFF.  113 

in  Leicester,  he  thought  it  might  be  agreeable  to  you 
to—" 

The  smile  of  polite  curiosity  with  which  he  heard 
that  Charley  had  had  something  to  say  to  him  rapidly 
faded  as  I  spoke,  and  there  came  into  his  countenance 
a  look  of  such  intense  seriousness,  nay,  even  of  sub 
dued  and  suffering  agitation,  that,  for  a  moment,  I  lost 
my  self-possession  in  my  surprise,  but  managed  to  finish 
my  message  in  a  stumbling  sort  of  way.  As  for  the 
Don,  anticipating,  apparently,  from  my  opening  words 
what  that  message  was  to  be,  he  seemed  hardly  con 
scious  that  it  was  ended.  He  sat,  for  a  moment,  with 
his  head  resting  in  the  palm  of  his  hand,  his  piercing 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  floor;  but  seeming  suddenly  to 
realize  that  this  was  a  queer  way  of  meeting  a  cour 
tesy,  he  quickly  raised  his  head.  "  Thanks,  thanks,"  said 
he,  with  a  forced  smile,  but  with  apologetic-  emphasis. 
"  Charley — I  beg  pardon — Mr.  Frobisher  is  very  kind, 
—very  kind  indeed !  Yes,  I  should  immensely  enjoy 
having  a  tilt  once  more  at  the  partridges.*  Very 
much  indeed." 

"  Then  I  may  hope  that  you  will  accept  ?" 

"Oh,  certainly,  with  very  great  pleasure.  Please 
present  my  warmest  acknowledgments  to  Char — Mr. 
Frobisher,  and  say  that  I  shall  be  at  his  command  so 
soon  as  I  shall  have  recovered  my  strength  somewhat." 
He  paused  for  a  moment;  then,  throwing  back  his 
head  with  a  little  laugh :  "  By  the  way,"  he  con 
tinued,  "  I  beg  you  will  not  misinterpret  my  singular 
way  of  receiving  the  invitation.  It  was  such  a  sur 
prise,  and  I  am  still  a  little  weak,  you  know." 

"  You  must  allow  me  to  add  how  much  gratified  I, 
too,  am  at  your  decision.  You  know — or  do  you  not  ? 
— that  the  invitation  is  to  my  grandfather's  place,  El- 
mington." 

"Elmington?" 

"  Ah,  I  see — very  naturally,  you  don't  understand 
that  Charley  lives  with  my  grandfather." 

"  With  your  grandfather  ?     Why,  how  can  that  be  ? 

*  The  quail  is  unknown  in  Virginia — both  bird  and  word.—  Ed. 
h  10* 


114  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

I  thought  his  place  adjoined  your — "  And  he  stopped 
suddenly.  "  Please  be  so  good  as  to  explain,"  he  added, 
in  a  low  voice. 

"  Well,  this  rather  peculiar  state  of  things  came  about 
in  this  way.  My  mother  died  before  I  was  a  month 
old,  and  my  father,  my  grandfather's  only  son,  survived 
her  less  than  a  year;  so  that  I  was  brought  up  by  the 
old  gentleman.  Now,  Charley's  place  adjoined  El- 
mington,  my  grandfather's,  their  respective  residences 
being  not  over  a  half-mile  apart ;  and  so  Charley  got 
into  the  habit — however,  I  must  mention  that  Charley 
lost  his  father  years  ago,  and,  about  ten  years  since, 
his  mother  died." 

"His  mother?  His  mother  is  dead?"  asked  the  Don, 
in  a  low  tone,  and  without  raising  his  eyes  from  the  floor. 

"  Yes.     They  say  she  was  a  lovely  woman." 

"  And  she  is  dead,  you  say, — your  friend's  mother  ?" 
he  repeated,  in  a  mechanical  sort  of  way ;  and,  resting 
his  head  upon  his  hand,  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  win 
dow  with  a  look  so  grim  that  I  paused  in  my  narrative. 

"Yes,"  I  presently  resumed,  "she — Charley's  mother; 
that  is—" 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  said  he,  abruptly  turning  to  me,  and, 
as  the  Latin  hath  it,  serening  his  face  with  an  effort, — 
"  please  go  on." 

"  Well,  Charley  was  at  the  University  at  the  time  of 
his  mother's  death  ;  and  during  the  following  vacation 
he  seemed  to  find  his  own  desolate  home — be  was  sin 
gularly  devoted  to  his  mother — unendurable;  so  he 
would  frequently  drop  in  on  my  grandfather  and  my 
self  at  tea,  walking  home,  when  bedtime  came,  across 
the  fields;  but  my  grandfather,  remarking  the  sad 
look  that  always  came  into  his  face  when  he  arose  to 
depart,  would  frequently  insist  upon  his  spending  the 
night  with  us.  The  poor  fellow  could  scarcely  ever 
resist  the  temptation,  to  my  great  delight ;  for  to  me,  a 
boy  of  thirteen,  Charley,  who  was  eighteen,  and  a  stu 
dent,  was  a  sort  of  demi-god.  I  suppose,  in  tact,  that 
apart  from  my  grandfather's  personal  liking  for  the 
young  man,  and  his  sympathy  with  him  under  the  cir 
cumstances,  he  was  very  glad  to  give  me  the  society  of 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.*  H5 

some  one  younger  than  himself.  And  so,  to  make  a 
long  story  short,  Charley's  visits  becoming  more  and 
more  frequent  and  regular,  it  came  at  last  to  be  under 
stood  that  he  was  to  spend  every  night  with  us, — during 
his  vacation,  of  course.  At  last,  at  the  end  of  three 
years,  Charley  left  the  University  with  the  degree  of 
Master  of  Arts  in  pocket." 

"  Indeed !" 

"  Yes.  You  are  surprised,  no  doubt.  He  is  so  unas 
suming,  one  would  hardly  suppose  that  he  had  attained 
an  honor  which  is  reached  by  hardly  more  than  one  out 
of  every  hundred  of  the  students  at  the  University. 
To  continue.  When  he  returned  from  college  and  took 
charge  of  his  farm,  it  soon  appeared  that  the  tables 
were  turned.  It  was  Charley's  companionship  now 
that  had  grown  to  be  a  necessity  to  the  old  gentleman. 
'  We  shall  expect  you  to  dinner,'  he  would  say  every 
morning,  as  Charley  rode  off  to  look  after  his  farming 
operations.  Charley  often  protested  against  this  one 
sided  hospitality,  and,  as  a  compromise,  we  would  dine 
with  him  occasionally;  but  at  last  my  grandfather  pro 
posed  a  consolidation  of  the  two  households,  all  of  us 
wondering  why  the  plan  had  not  been  thought  of  before. 
That  is  the  way  Charley  came  to  live  at  Elmington. 
The  two  farms  are  separate,  though  from  time  to  time 
worked  in  common,  as  occasion  demands, — in  harvest- 
time,  for  example.  Each  farm  contributes  its  quota  to 
the  table,  though  not  in  any  fixed  ratio.  My  grand 
father,  for  example,  is  firmly  persuaded  that  the  grass 
on  his  farm — notably  in  one  special  field — imparts,  in 
some  occult  way,  a  flavor  to  his  mutton  that  Charley's 
does  not  possess;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  an  old 
woman  on  Charley's  place  has  such  a  gift  at  raising 
chickens,  turkeys,  and  ducks,  that  we  have  gotten  in 
the  habit  of  looking  to  her  for  our  fowls." 

The  Don  smiled. 

"It  is  rather  a  singular  arrangement,  isn't  it?  but  1 
have  gone  into  these  details  that  you  might  see  that 
Elmington  is,  for  all  the  purposes  of  hospitality,  as 
much  Charley's  as  my  grandfather's.  I  hope  it  will 
not  be  long,"  I  added,  rising,  "  before  you  will  be  able 


116  'THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

to  go  down  and  see  how  the  arrangement  works, 
though  I  am  sorry  I  shall  not  be  able  to  join  you  till 
Christmas  week,  being  detained  by  professional  engage 
ments,  or,  rather,  the  hope  of  such,  as  I  have  but  re 
cently  opened  a  law  office." 

"You  may  rest  assured  that  I  shall  not  lose  a  day,  when 
once  my  physician  has  given  me  leave  to  go.  Can't  you 
sit  longer  ?  Another  visit  yet  ?  Ah,  I  am  sorry."  And 
he  accompanied  me  to  the  door  of  his  sitting-room. 

As  we  stood  there  for  a  moment,  exchanging  the 
customary  civilities  of  leave-taking,  my  eye  fell  upon 
the  little  book  the  Don  had  laid  upon  a  shelf  of  hia 
book-case. 

It  was  a  copy  of  the  NEW  TESTAMENT. 


CHAPTEE  XVII. 

AT  about  the  hour  at  which  I  was  taking  leave  of  the 
Don  my  grandfather  was  sitting  alone  in  his  dining- 
room,  reading;  his  snow-white  hair  and  beard,  as  they 
glistened  in  the  lamp-light,  affording  a  strong  contrast 
to  the  vivacity  of  his  dark  eyes  and  the  ruddy  glow  of 
his  complexion.  But  the  book  before  him  was  hardly 
able  to  fix  his  attention.  Every  now  and  then  he  would 
raise  his  eyes  from  its  pages,  with  the  look  of  one  who 
fancied  that  he  heard  an  expected  sound.  Several 
times  he  had  risen  from  his  seat,  gone  to  the  door, 
opened  it,  and  listened.  Something  like  this  he  had 
been  doing  now  for  nearly  a  week.  "Dick!"  called 
he  at  last,  opening  the  door :  "  Dick !" 

Uncle  Dick  emerged  from  the  kitchen,  where,  for 
several  days  past,  he  had  had  orders  to  sit  up  till  ten 
o'clock  in  the  hope  that  Charley  might  arrive. 

"  Yes,  mahster !" 

"Dick,  I  thought  I  heard  some  one  coming." 

Uncle  Dick,  who  very  naturally  (and  correctly)  sup 
posed  that  this  was  another  false  alarm,  threw  his  head 
into  an  attitude  of  pretended  listening. 

"  Do  you  hear  anything  ?"   asked  the  old  gentleman. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  117 

"Ain't  dcm  de  horses  a-stompin'  down  at  de  stable?" 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,"  sighed  the  old  gentleman, 
as  he  turned  to  re-enter  the  dining-room. 

"JVlarse  Charley  ain't  sont  you  no  letter,  is  he?" 
asked  Uncle  Dick,  advancing  deferentially  towards  my 
grandfather,  across  the  space  that  separated  the  kitchen 
from  the  "  Great-House." 

"  Why,  no ;  but  I  thought  he  might  come.  He  wrote 
me  a  week  ago  that  the  gentleman  was  getting  well." 

"Adzackly!"  replied  Dick,  scratching  in  the  fringe 
of  white  wool  that  bordered  his  bald  head.  "Jess  so  1 
Does  you  think  it  rimprobable,  mahster,"  he  began 
again  after  a  moment  of  seeming  reflection,  "dat  Marse 
Charley  would  come  without  he  writ  fust  and  'pinted 
de  day,  and  de  ferry  'most  twenty  miles  from  here, 
and  nothin'  to  hire  dere  'cep'n  'tis  dat  old  flea-bitten 
gray,  and  he  a-string-halted  ?" 

"  True  enough." 

"Dat  ain't  no  fitten  animil  for  de  likes  o'  Marse 
Charley,  and  he  a-used  to  straddlin'  o'  de  very  best  dat 
steps." 

"  But  listen,  Dick!  what's  that?" 

"Lor',  mahster,  dat  ain't  nothin'  but  de  old  m'yat 
and  colt  out  d'yar  in  de  pasture." 

""Well,  what  in  the  blue-blazes  makes  them  all  stamp 
so  to-night  ?"  replied  the  old  gentleman,  not  without  a 
little  petulance. 

"Dat's  jess  what  I  say!  leastwise  d'yar  ain't  no  flies 
to  bite  'em  dis  weather;  but  dey  will  do  it,  mahster, 
dey  will  do  it.  Every  dog  have  he  day,  dey  tell  me." 

Uncle  Dick  was  strong  on  proverbs,  though  hardly 
happy  in  their  application.  Sometimes,  in  fact,  just  as 
doctors  will,  when  they  don't  know  what  is  the  matter 
•with  a  patient,  prescribe  pills  of  several  remedial 
agents,  in  the  hope  that  if  one  shall  miss  another  may 
hit,  so  our  old  hostler,  carriage-driver,  and  dining-room 
servant  would  not  scruple,  when  aiming  at  a  truth,  to 
let  fly  at  it  an  aphorism  compound  of  the  head  of  one 
proverb  and  the  tail  of  another. 

"  Yes,"  said  my  grandfather,  applying  Dick's  saying 
for  him,  "  every  dog  will  have  his  day,  and  I  suppose 


118  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

that  is  why  your  Marse  Charles  is  staying  so  long  in 
Richmond." 

Uncle  Dick  was  a  year  or  two  his  master's  senior, 
and  many  a  "  wrassle"  had  they  had  together  as  boys. 
He  was,  of  course,  a  privileged  character,  and  he  now 
gave  one  of  those  low  chuckles  beyond  the  reach  of 
the  typographer's  art  to  represent  to  the  eye.  "  Yes, 
mahster,  I  hears  'em  say  dat  d'yar  is  some  monstrous 
pretty  gals,  nebberdeless  I  should  say  young  ladies,  up 
d'yar  in  Richmond.  Howsomever,  pretty  is  as  pretty 
does.  Dat's  what  old  Dick  tells  'em." 

"You  think  Charley  is  in  love,  I  presume?" 

Old  Dick  drew  himself  up  as  became  one  consulted 
on  family  affairs,  and,  dropping  his  head  on  one  side,  he 
assumed,  with  his  knitted  brows  and  pursed  lips,  an 
eminently  judicial  air. 

"  Well,  mahster,  ef  you  axes  me  'bout  dat,  I  couldn't 
'espond  pint'ly,  in  course  ;  for  I  ain't  seen  Marse  Charles 
a-noratin'  of  it  and  a-splanifyin'  amongst  de  Richmond 
f'yar  sect;  but  old  Dick  ain't  been  a-wrasslin'  and 
a-spyin'  'round  in  dis  here  vain  world  for  nigh  on  to  a 
hundred  year  for  nothin'  ef  you  listen  to  Dick ;  and  ef 
you  believes  me,  mahster,  dey  all  of 'em  most  inginerally 
gits  tetched  with  love  onetimeornuther." 

"I  believe  you  are  quite  right,  Dick." 

"  Why,  Lor'  me,  mahster,"  began  Dick,  encouraged, 
and  assuming  an  attitude  worthy  of  the  vast  generali 
zation  he  was  about  to  utter,  "  I  really  do  believe 
into  my  soul  dat  people  is  born  so ;  dey  is  pint'ly, 
— specially  young  folks."  And  he  stopped  in  mid- 
career.  "What  dat?  'Pear  like  I  hear  de  far  gate 
slam.  But  Marse  Charley,  he  are  a  keener,  he  are,  and 
the  gal  what  catches  him  will  have  to  be  a  keener  too, 
she  will  pint'ly.  Marse  Charley  worse'n  a  oyster  at 
low  tide ;  soon  as  a  young  "oman  begins  a-speculatin' 
and  a-gallivantin'  round  him,  he  shets  up,  he  do."  And 
the  old  man  chuckled.  "  Howsomever,  he  am  pint'ly 
a  keener,  ef  you  hear  Dick — " 

"Listen,  Dick!" 

"  I  do  believe  I  hear  a  horse  snort !  D'yar  'tis  again  ! 
Somebody  comm'  through  de  gate.  'Fore  de  Lord,  I 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  119 

believe  'tis  Marse  Charley !  Lemme  look  good  !  Suro 
enough,  d'yar  he  is!  Sarvant,  Marse  Charles!  I 
knowed  you  was  a-comin'  dis  very  night,  and  I  hope  I 
may  die  ef  he  ain't  on  old  Hop-and-go-fetch-it !  Lord 
a'  massy!  Lord  a'  massy!  Well,  it's  an  ill  wind  what 
don't  blow  de  crows  out  o'  some  gent'mun's  cornfield. 
Lord  a'  massy,  Marse  Charley,  what  is  you  a-doin'  up 
d'yar  on  dat  poor  old  critter,  and  de  horses  in  de  stable 
jess  a-spilin'  to  have  somebody  fling  he  leg  over  'em  ?" 

"  Well,  my  boy,  is  that  you '?" 

"  Yes,  here  I  am  again,  and  glad  to  be  back  at  home. 
How  are  you,  Uncle  Tom  ?" 

"  The  same  old  seven-and-sixpence, — always  well ; 
and  how  are  you?" 

"  Sound  in  wind  and  limb,  and  savagely  hungry." 

"  Well,  get  down,  and  we'll  soon  cure  that  ailment." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Charley,  as  they  entered  the 
dining-room,  "  that  I  had  to  stay  awajr  so  long,  but  it 
seemed  right  that  I  should  help  nurse  him.  Ah,  what 
a  noble  fire!" 

"  Well,  you  are  at  home  again,  at  any  rate.  Polly 
will  soon  have  some  supper  for  you,  and  you  know 
what  is  in  the  sideboard." 

Old  Dick,  meanwhile,  was  carrying  out  his  share  in 
the  programme. 

"Well,  I  s'pose  I'll  have  to  feed  you,"  said  he  to 
the  flea-bitten,  surveying  him  from  head  to  hock. 

No  true  negro  feels  any  doubt  whateveras  to  his  words 
being  perfectly  intelligible  to  horse,  mule,  cow,  or  dog. 

"  Ef  ever  I  see  a  poor-folks'  horse,  you  is  one.  Git 
up !  git  up !  don't  you  hear  me  ?  You  needn't  be  a- 
standin'  here  a-thinkin'  Dick  gwine  to  ride  you  to  de 
stable.  Aha !  you  hear  dat  word  stable,  did  you  ? 
Bound  for  you  !  You  been  d'yar  befo',  and  you  know 
d'yar's  corn  in  dat  'ar  stable;  and  a  heap  mo',  besides 
you,  know  dat  d'yar  is  pervisions  a-layin'  around  here, 
and  dey  ain't  horses  neither,  nor  yet  muils.  Git  up,  I 
tell  you  !  Ain't  you  got  no  more  sense,  old  as  you  is, 
dan  to  be  a-snatchin'  at  dry  grass  like  dat  ?  But 
Lor',  Dick  don't  blame  you !  JNo,  honey,  Dick  ain't  got 
a  word  agin  you.  Who  is  you,  any  way,  I  ax  you  dat  i 


120  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

Is  you  blood  ?  Is  you  quality  ?  Dat's  what's  do  mat 
ter,  ef  you  believe  me.  You  needn't  be  a-shakin'  your 
head ;  you  can't  tell  Dick  nothin'.  Anybody  can  see 
you  ain't  kin  to  nobody.  'M'h'm!  yes,  chile!  you 
needn't  say  a  word,  Dick  knows  dat  kind  far  as  he 
can  see  'em,  be  dey  man  or  beast.  Howsomever,  Dick 
don't  mount  no  sich.  Nigger  property  is  too  unsartin 
for  dat.  Nebberdeless,  Marse  Charles,  bein'  as  how  he 
belongs  to  his  self,  he  mought.  Nebberdeless,  you  fotch 
him  home,  and  prett}7  is  as  pretty  does,  dat's  de  way 
old  Dick  talks  it.  Polly!  Polly!"  shouted  he  to  his 
wife,  the  cook,  as  he  passed  the  kitchen  door;  "  Polly ! 
git  up,  gal !  Marse  Charles  done  come  and  want  he 
supper.  I  would  say"  continued  he,  not  content  with 
the  colloquial  phrases  in  which  he  had  announced  his 
young  master's  arrival  and  the  state  of  his  appetite, — "  I 
would  say,  Polly," — and  enveloped  in  darkness  as  he 
was,  and  invisible  even  to  his  spouse,  the  old  man  threw 
himself  into  an  impressive  pose,  as  he  always  did  when 
about  to  adorn  his  language  with  phrases  caught  up 
from  the  conversation  of  his  master  and  his  guests, 
— "  I  would  say  de  Prodigy  Son  have  arrove,  and  he  as 
ravenous  as  de  fatted  calf."  Hearing  Polly  bustling 
about  within  the  kitchen  :  "  Polly,"  inquired  he,  in  a 
stately  voice,  "  did  you  hearken  to  what  I  rubserved  ?" 

"  I  hear  you,  Dick." 

"  But  did  you  make  me  out,  chile,  dat's  de  pint,  did 
you  make  me  out?" 

"  G'long,  man,  and  put  dat  horse  in  de  stable.  Marse 
Charley  want  he  supper,  course  he  do.  What's  de  use 
o'  talkin'  about  fat  calves,  when  you  know  as  well  as 
I  does  d'yar  ain't  no  sich  a  thing  in  de  kitchen.  Marse 
Charley  want  he  supper,  I  know  dat,  and  I'so  gittin* 
ready  to  cook  it  fast  as  I  can." 

"  I  b'lieve  you.  Well,  put  my  name  in  de  pot,  chile." 
And  the  old  man  went  his  way.  "  Well,"  said  he,  solilo 
quizing  upon  the  much-longed-for  return  of  his  young 
master,  "dey  tell  me  chickens,  like  horses  [curses?], 
always  does  come  home  to  roost — git  up,  I  tell  you ! — 
'cep'n  onless  dey  meets  a  free  nigger  in  de  road,  den 
good-by  chickens — for  you're  gwine  to  leave  us." 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  121 


CHAPTEK  XVIII. 

"WHY,  what's  all  this,  Uncle  Dick?"  exclaimed 
Charley,  as  that  venerable  servitor  entered,  with  hos 
pitably  beaming  countenance,  bearing  a  tray.  "  Koast 
oysters !  why,  this  cold  turkey  was  enough  for  a  prince." 
And  he  brushed  from  his  yellow  moustache  the  foam  of 
a  glass  of  Bass's  ale. 

The  old  man,  complimented  by  Charley's  surprise, 
placed  the  smoking  oysters  upon  the  table  with  a  bow 
of  the  old  school. 

"  Why,  they  are  beauties !  Ah,  I  am  glad  you  will 
join  me,  Uncle  Tom !  I  never  saw  finer." 

"  Dey  is  fine,  Marse  Charley,  dat's  a  fac'.  Polly  she 
save  'em  for  you  special.  You  know,  young  mahster" 
(another  bow),  "de  old-time  people  used  to  say  you 
must  speed  de  partin'  guest." 

"  That's  true.  By  the  way,  Uncle  Dick,  what  do 
you  say  to  a  little  something  to  warm  up  your  old 
bones  ?" 

"  Since  you  mention  it,  Marse  Charley,  I  believe  de 
frost  has  tetched  'em  a  little." 

"Well,  get  that  bottle  out  of  the  sideboard, — you 
know  where  it  is." 

"  Know  whar  'tis  ?  I  wish  I  had  as  many  dollars  as 
I  know  whar  dat  bottle  sets !" 

"  Or  would  you  prefer  ale  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  young  mahster ;  whiskey  good  enough 
for  Dick." 

"There,  'tisn't  more  than  half  full;  take  it  out  and 
give  Polly  her  share." 

"Sarvant,  mahster!" 

"  Take  some  sugar  ?" 

"  Much  obleeged,  young  mahster ;  seems  like  'most 
everything  spiles  whiskey.  Somehownuther  nothin' 
don't  gee  with  sperrits  'cep'n  'tis  mo  sperrits." 

"  But  Aunt  Polly  might  like  sugar  with  hers." 

"  Dat's  a  fac',  Marse  Charley,  dat's  a  fac' ;  but  Lor' 
*  11 


122  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFt. 

me,  women  don't  know ;  but  den  again  dey  tell  me  it's 
a  wise  man  as  knows  his  own  father,  so  d'yar  'tis." 

"  Well,  Uncle  Dick,  I  can  make  out  without  you  now, 
so  good-night ;  and  present  my  compliments  to  Aunt 
Polly,  and  you  and  she  drink  my  health." 

"  We  will  pint'ly,  Marse  Charles,  we  will  pint'ly." 
And  even  after  the  old  man  had  closed  the  door,  you 
might  have  heard  muttered  fragments  of  his  amiablo 
intentions,  as  he  trudged  back  to  the  kitchen. 

"Well,"  began  my  grandfather,  rising  from  the  table 
to  fill  his  pipe,  "you  made  a  long  stay  of  it  in  Rich 
mond.  How  did  you  leave  the  young  man  ?" 

"Ah,  he  is  nearly  well  again,"  said  Charley,  deftly 
removing  a  side-bone  from  the  fowl  before  him.  "  By 
Jove,  I  did  not  know  how  hungry  I  was.  That  early 
dinner  on  the  boat  seems  to  me  now  like  a  far-away 
di-eam  of  a  thing  that  never  was.  I  wonder  whether 
this  turkey  really  is  the  best  that  old  Sucky  ever 
raised?  How  good  that  tobacco  smells  1" 

Charley  was  happy.  The  bright  fire  and  good  cheer, 
after  his  long,  cold,  and  tiresome  ride,  the  intense  con 
sciousness  of  being  at  home  once  more,  but,  above  all, 
the  look  of  beaming  satisfaction  on  the  face  of  the  ven 
erable  but  still  vigorous  old  man,  who  sat  smiling  upon 
him  and  enjoying  his  appetite  and  high  spirits,  filled 
him  with  ineffable  content. 

"Let  me  settle  with  this  august  bird,  Uncle  Tom, 
and  then  I  shall  be  ready  to  talk  to  you  about  Mr. 
Smith, — Don  Miff,  as  the  girls  call  him." 

"Don  Miff?— what  girls?" 

"  The — ah,  we  gave  him  that  nickname.  "  I'll  explain 
when  I  get  even  with  this  noble  fowl  and  light  my 
pipe." 

"Did  you,"  asked  my  grandfather,  advancing  cau 
tiously  as  a  skirmisher,  "meet  any  nice  people  in 
Eichmond  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  very  nice  people  up  there, — too  many  of 
them ;  made  me  talk  myself  nearly  to  death, — but  very 
nice  people,  of  course,  very.  Look  at  that  chap," 
added  he,  holding  up  on  the  end  of  his  fork  a  huge 
oyster. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  I2H 

"You  spoke  of  girls, — did  you  meet  any?"  And  a 
pang  of  jealousy  shot  through  the  old  man's  heart,  as 
he  recalled  Dick's  aphorism  on  the  universal  liability  of 
young  folks  to  a  certain  weakness. 

"  Oh,  lots ! — I'll  have  to  cut  this  fellow  in  two,  I 
believe." 

"  Who  were  they  ?"  asked  the  old  man,  trying  to 
smile. 

"Who?  the  girls?" 

"  Yes ;  you  did  not  mention  any  in  your  letters." 

"  Of  course  not.  When  did  you  ever  know  me  to 
write  about  girls  ?  As  I  said,  I  met  lots  of  them  at  the 
various  houses  at  which  I  visited.  It  seems  to  me  that 
there  are  girls  everywhere." 

"  Thank  God  for  it,  too." 

"Well, — yes, — as  it  were;  but  you  can't  expect  a 
fellow  to  remember  all  their  names.  Oh,  there  was 
Lucy  Poy  thress,  of  course." 

"  Yes,  I  knew  she  was  in  Eichmond." 

"And  then — and  then  there  was  a  schoolmate  of 
hers, — Miss  Mary  Eolfe.  You  know  her  father,  Mr. 
James  Rolfe.  Brilliant  girl,  they  say, — talks  beauti 
fully — very  accomplished,  you  know,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing." 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  she  is  a  really  charming  girl. 
What  do  you  say  to  our  having  her  as  one  of  our 
Christmas  party?"  The  old  man  removed  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth.  "What  do  you  say,  Charley ?"  And 
he  glanced  at  the  young  man's  face  with  a  look  that 
was  too  eager  to  be  shrewd. 

"  A  capital  idea !"  exclaimed  Charley,  spearing  another 
oyster  with  emphasis. 

The  old  man  drew  vigorously  on  his  pipe  several 
times,  and  finding  it  had  gone  out,  rose  for  a  lighter. 
"  You  think,"  said  he,  puffing  between  his  words  as  ho 
relit  his  pipe,  contemplatively  watching  the  tongue  of 
flame  darting  down  into  the  bowl,  "that  we  should  have 
her  of  the  party  ?" 

"  Most  assuredly.  She  is  a  fine  girl, — you  would  like 
her.  In  fact,  we  must  have  her  here  if  possible." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  "  yes."   And  he  gazed  at  the 


124  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

bright  coals.  He  felt  that  he  had  not  landed  his  trout 
"  So  you  didn't  lose  your  heart  ?" 

"My  heart?  Who,  I?"  And  Charley  gave  a  loud 
laugh. 

"  The  very  idea  amuses  you  ?" 

" I  should  think  sol  I  suppose  you  suspect  that  old 
Cousin  Sally's  niece — or  Cousin  Sally's  old  niece — which 
ever  you  please — captivated  me  ?" 

"  No,  I  was  not  thinking  of  Sarah  Ann.  In  fact,  I 
didn't  know  that  any  one  had  captivated  you — till  you 
mentioned  it." 

"  Well,  upon  my  word,  I  have  finished  the  last  of 
these  oysters, — and  there  is  not  so  much  turkey  as 
there  was." 

"Well,  now  we  will  have  an  old-time  whiff  together; 
and  now  begin  your  story.  However,  before  you  do, 
can  you  think  of  any  other  girl  who  would  be  an 
acquisition  for  Christmas  ?" 

"  Who  ?  Bless  me,  Uncle  Tom,  what  could  have  put 
such  a  notion  into  your  head  ?  Oh,  I'll  tell  you, — leave 
it  all  to  Jack-Whack ;  he's  the  ladies'  man  of  the  family, 
you  know." 

"  Very  well ;  and  now  fill  your  pipe  and  tell  me  all 
those  strange  things  about  that  strange  Mr.  Smith,  that 
you  promised  me  in  your  letters." 

Charley  told  the  story,  with  one  omission.  He  failed 
to  allude  to  his  having  invited  the  Don  to  visit  Elming- 
ton.  Omissions  to  state  all  manner  of  things  that  ordi 
nary  mortals  would  make  haste  to  mention  was  one 
of  Charley's  idiosyncrasies, — so  that  I  suspect  t'hp-t  his 
silence  on  this  point  was  premeditated.  Another  was, 
as  I  have  already  hinted,  an  aversion  to  expressing  an 
opinion  of  any  one,  good  or  bad.  But  Mr.  Whacker 
felt  instinctively  that  Charley  had  conceived  a  genuine 
liking  for  this  mysterious  stranger.  A  tone  here,  a 
look  there,  told  the  tale.  Charley's  likings,  being  rare, 
were  exceedingly  strong.  Moreover,  they  were  never, 
I  may  say,  misplaced,  and  my  grandfather  knew  this. 
So,  when  Charley  had  finished  his  narrative,  "  You 
have,"  said  he,  "  interested  me  deeply.  Who  can  he  be  ? 
But  be  he  who  he  may,  he  is  obviously  no  common  man  " 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  125 

Charley  puffed  away  slowly  at  his  pipe. 

"He  is  a  remarkable  man,"  continued  my  grand- 
father,  warming  up. 

"He  has  points  about  him,"  said  Charley,  driven  to 
say  something. 

"  Yes,  and  characteristic  points,  highly  characteristic 
points,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  with  a  sort  of  defiant 
emphasis. 

"  He  has,  beyond  question." 

"  Charley,"  began  Mr.  Whacker,  rising  and  taking  a 
lighter, — for  he  had  suffered  his  pipe  to  go  out, — "  don't 
you  think" — and  he  lit  the  taper — "  what  do  you  say," 
he  continued,  in  a  hesitating  manner,  which  he  tried  to 
cover  up  under  pretence  of  strict  attention  to  the  feat 
of  adjusting  the  blaze  to  the  tobacco, — "how  would 
it  do  to  invite  him  here, — just  for  a  week  or  so,  you 
know  ?" 

It  is,  I  dare  say,  a  mere  whim  on  my  part,  but  I 
must  now  beg  the  contemporary  reader  to  obliterate 
himself  for  a  few  pages. 

I  must  tell  you,  my  descendant-to-the-tenth-power — 
no,  you  will  be  that  much  of  a  grandson, — my  de- 
scendant-to-the-twelfth-power,  therefore — I  must  tell 
you,  as  a  matter  of  family  history,  why  your  ascendant- 
to-the-fourteenth-power  hesitated. 

Our  common  ancestor  was  a  Virginian, — which 
means,  you  will  doubtless  know,  that  he  was  hospi 
table.  Again,  he  was  a  Virginian  of  Leicester  County, 
— and  that  is  as  much  as  to  say,  as  I  trust  a  dim  tradi 
tion,  at  least,  shall  have  informed  you,  that  he  was  a 
Virginian  of  Virginians.  But,  lastly  and  chiefly,  he 
was  Mr.  Thomas  Whacker  of  Elmington.  What  that 
amounts  to  you  can  learn  from  me  alone. 

Our  common  ancestor  was,  then,  the  soul  of  hospi 
tality, — hospitality  in  a  certain  sense  boundless,  though 
it  was  strictly  limited  and  exclusive  in  a  certain  direc 
tion.  No  dull  man  or  woman  was  welcome  at  Elming 
ton.  But  his  nets  seemed  to  bring  in  all  the  queer 
fish  that  floated  about  Virginia.  I  suppose  there  must 
have  been  something  inborn  in  him  that  made  odd 
people  attractive  to  him,  and  him  to  them,  but  I  have 

11* 


326  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

no  doubt  that  this  trait  of  his  was  in  part  due  to  the 
kind  of  Bohemian  life  he  led  in  Europe  for  several 
years,  when  he  was  a  young  man,  mingling,  on  familiar 
terms,  with  musicians,  actors,  painters,  and  all  manner 
of  shiftless  geniuses, — so  that  the  average  humdrum 
citizen  possessed  little  interest  for  him.  If  a  man  could 
only  do  or  say  anything  that  no  one  else  could  do  or 
say,  or  do  it  or  say  it  better  than  any  one  else,  he  had 
a  friend  in  Mr.  Whacker.  All  forms  of  brightness  and 
of  humor— any  kind  of  talent,  or  even  oddity — could 
unlock  that  door,  which  swung  so  easily  on  its  hinges. 
And  not  only  men  of  gifts,  but  all  who  had  a  lively 
appreciation  of  gifts,  were  at  liberty  to  make  Elming- 
ton  their  headquarters ;  so  that,  as  my  memory  goes 
back  to  those  days,  there  rises  before  me  a  succession 
of  the  drollest  mortals  that  were  ever  seen  in  one  Vir 
ginia  house.  Now,  I  need  hardly  remind  you  that  com- 
rny  of  this  character  has  its  objections.  Men  such  as 
have  rapidly  outlined  are  not  always  very  eligible 
visitors  at  a  country  house.  It  happens,  not  unfre- 
quently,  that  a  man  who  is  very  entertaining  to-day  is 
a  bore  to-morrow, — the  day  after,  a  nuisance ;  so  that 
our  grandfather,  who  was  the  most  unsuspicious  of  mor 
tals,  and  who  always  took  men  for  what  they  seemed 
to  be  on  a  first  interview,  was  frequently  most  egre- 
giously  taken  in,  and  was  often  at  his  wit's  end  as  to  how 
to  get  rid  of  some  treasure  he  had  picked  up.  In  fact, 
Charley  used  to  dread  the  old  gentleman's  return  from 
the  springs  in  autumn,  or  the  cities  in  winter;  for  he 
was  quite  sure  to  have  invited  to  Elmington  some  of  the 
people  whom  he  had  met  there ;  and  they  often  proved 
not  very  profitable  acquaintances.  In  fine,  wherever 
he  went,  ho  rarely  failed  to  gather  more  or  less  gems 
of  purest  ray  serene,  many  of  which  turned  out,  under 
Charley's  more  scrutinizing  eyes,  very  ordinary  pebbles 
indeed. 

Unqualified,  however,  what  I  have  written  would 
give  a  very  erroneous  idea  of  the  people  our  grand 
father  used  to  gather  around  his  hospitable  board  ;  for 
I  must  say  that  after  all  deductions  have  been  made,  he 
managed,  certainly  to  get  beneath  his  vine  and  fig-tree 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  127 

more  really  clever  and  interesting  people  than  I  have 
ever  seen  in  any  one  house  elsewhere.  And  then,  too, 
as  there  were  no  ladies  at  Elmington,  I  don't  know 
that  his  mistakes  mattered  mueh.  Still,  they  were 
sufficiently  numerous;  and  he  had  begun  to  lose,  not 
indeed  his  faith  in  men,  so  much  as  in  his  own  ability  to 
read  them.  And  just  in  proportion  as  waned  his  confi 
dence  in  his  own  judgment  in  such  matters,  he  placed 
an  ever-heightening  estimate  upon  Charley's ;  so  that, 
in  the  end,  he  was  always  rather  nervous  upon  the  ar 
rival  of  any  of  his  new-found  geniuses,  till  his  taciturn 
friend  had  indicated,  in  some  way,  that  he  thought 
them  unexceptionable. 

Now,  Charley  had  seen  Mr.  Smith ;  our  grandfather 
not.  Here  was.  a  chance.  He  would  throw  the  re 
sponsibility  upon  Charley.  In  this  particular  case  he 
was  especially  glad  to  do  so,  for  there  was  undoubtedly 
an  air  of  mystery  surrounding  Mr.  Smith,  and  mystery 
cannot  but  arouse  suspicion. 

Our  grandfather  continued :  "H'm?  What  do  you 
say  ?  For  a  week  or  so  ?" 

There  was  positively  something  timid  in  the  way  he 
glanced  at  Charley  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  And 
now  you  may  dimly  discern  what  was  most  probably 
Charley's  motive  for  refraining  from  alluding  to  his 
having  himself  invited  the  Don  to  Elmington.  In  a 
spirit  of  affectionate  malice  he  had  deliberately  en 
trapped  his  old  friend  into  making  the  proposition.  So 
I  must  believe,  at  least. 

"  By  all  means,"  replied  Charley,  with  a  cordiality 
that  surprised  Mr.  Whacker. 

"  What !  Do  you  say  so  ?"  cried  our  grandfather, 
rubbing  his  hands  delightedly ;  and  taking  out  his  keys, 
he  began  to  unlock  his  desk.  "  How  should  the  letter 
be  addressed  ?"  continued  he,  turning  and  looking  at 
Charley.  His  face  reddened  a  little  as  he  detected  an 
imperfectly  suppressed  smile  in  Charley's  eyes.  He 
was  somewhat  afraid  of  that  smile. 

"  What  are  you  grinning  at  ?" 

"  I  grinning?" 

"  Yes,  you !     Didn't  you  say  we  should  invite  him  ?" 


128  THE  STORY  OF  DOS  MIFF. 

"  Certainly." 

"Then  what's  the  matter?" 

"  It's  past  eleven,"  said  Charley,  glancing  at  the  clock. 

"  Is  it  possible !" 

"  And  then  the  mail  doesn't  leave  till  day  after  to 
morrow." 

"  Oh !"  ejaculated  our  impulsive  ancestor,  "  I  had 
not  thought  of  that!" 


CHAPTEK  XIX. 

TEN  days  or  so  have  passed. 

"  Well,  Dick,"  said  Mr.  Whacker,  "  I  suppose  we  have 
seen  our  breakfast  ?" 

Dick  gave  his  company-bow,  glancing,  as  the  gentle 
men  rose  from  the  table,  with  the  imposing  look  of  a 
generalissimo,  at  a  half-grown  boy  who  acted  as  his  aide- 
de-camp  whenever  there  was  even  one  guest  at  Elming 
ton.  It  was  only,  in  fact,  when  our  small  family  was 
alone  that  this  worthy  served  as  what  would  be  called, 
in  the  language  of  our  day,  a  "  practical"  waiter  (there 
existing,  it  would  seem,  at  the  period  of  this  writing, 
to  judge  from  the  frequency  of  that  adjective  upon 
sign-boards,  hordes  of  theoretical  blacksmiths,  cobblers, 
and  barbers,  against  whom  the  public  are  thus  tacitly 
warned).  •  For,  whenever  we  had  company,  Dick  would 
perform  the  duties  rather  of  a  commander  than  of  a 
private, — magis  imperatoris  quam  militis, — summoning 
to  his  assistance  one  or  more  lads  who  were  too  young 
for  steady  farm  work, — or  were  so  considered,  at  least, 
during  those  times  of  slavery.  Zip, — for  under  this 
name  went,  in  defiance  of  all  the  philology  and  all  the 
Grimm's  Laws  in  the  world,  the  boy  in  question, — (he 
had  been  christened  Moses,) — Zip  sprang  nimbly  for 
ward  under  that  austere  glance  of  authority  and  began 
to  clear  the  table, — half  trembling  under  the  severe  eye 
of  a  chief  for  whom  there  was  one  way  of  gathering 
up  knives,  one  method  of  piling  plate  upon  plate,  one 
of  removing  napkins, — one  and  only  one. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  129 

"  Dick,"  said  my  grandfather,  as  soon  as  pipes  were 
lit,  "there  is  a  fire  in  the  library?" 

"Yes,  sir;  I  made  one  de  fust  thing  dis  morning." 

"  Ah,  well,  Charley,  suppose  you  take  Mr.  Smith  over 
then  ;  you  will  be  more  comfortable  there  than  here.  I 
shall  follow  you  in  half  an  hour  or  so." 

"  This  way,"  said  Charley.  And  the  two  young  men, 
passing  through  the  house  and  descending  a  few  steps, 
found  themselves  upon  a  pavement  of  powdered  shells, 
which  led  to  a  frame  building,  painted  white,  and  one 
story  in  height,  which  stood  about  fifty  yards  westward 
of  the  mansion.  This  they  entered  by  the  left  door  of 
two  that  opened  upon  the  yard,  and  found  themselves 
in  my  grandfather's  library  and  sitting-room.  It  was 
fitted  up  with  shelves,  built  into  the  walls,  upon  which 
was  to  be  found  a  miscellaneous  library  of  about  two 
thousand  volumes ;  the  furniture  consisting  of  a  very 
wide  and  solid  square  table,  a  couple  of  lounges,  and  a 
number  of  very  comfortable  chairs  of  various  patterns. 
Charley  took  up  his  position  with  his  back  to  the  fire, 
while  the  Don  sauntered  round  the  room,  running  his 
eye  along  the  shelves,  and  occasionally  taking  down 
and  examining  a  volume,  and  the  two  chatted  quietly 
for  some  time. 

"  The  old  gentleman  is  coming  over.  I  hear  his  step. 
He  has  something  to  show  you." 

"  Ah  ?"  said  the  Don,  looking  around  the  room. 

"  It  is  not  in  this  room ;  it  is  in  the  next,— -or,  rather, 
it  is  that  room  itself,"  added  Charley,  pointing  to  a  door. 
"  That  room  is  the  apple  of  his  eye.  I  always  reserve 
for  him  the  pleasure  of  exhibiting  it  to  his  friends." 

"  Looking  over  our  books  ?"  interrupted  my  grand 
father,  entering  the  room  briskly,  with  a  ruddy  winter 
glow  upon  his  fine  face. 

"  Yes ;  and  I  observe  that  you  have  a  large  and  capital 
selection  of  French  classics." 

"  Yes ;  I  picked  them  up  when  I  was  abroad  as  a 
young  man.  You  read  French?  Ah!  Then  this  will 
be  the  place  for  you  on  rainy  days  when  you  can 
not  hunt.  Charley,  have  you  shown  Mr.  Smith  the 
Hall?" 


130  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  Not  yet." 

"No?"  ejaculated  my  grandfather,  with  a  surprise 
that  was  surprising,  seeing  that  Charley  had  given  him 
that  identical  answer  on  a  hundred  similar  occasions 
previously.  "  Mr.  Smith,"  said  he,  walking  toward  the 
inner  door,  "  we  have  a  room  here  that  we  think  rather 
unique  in  its  way."  And  he  placed  his  hand  upon  the 
knob.  "We  call  it  'The  Hall.'  Walk  in!"  And  he 
opened  wide  the  door,  stepping  back  with  the  air  of  an 
artist  withdrawing  a  curtain  from  a  new  production  of 
his  pencil. 

The  Don  advanced  to  the  threshold  of  the  room,  and 
giving  one  glance  within,  turned  to  his  host  with  a  look 
of  mingled  admiration  and  surprise.  The  old  gentle 
man,  who  was  as  transparent  as  glass,  fairly  beamed 
with  gratification  at  observing  the  pleased  astonishment 
of  his  guest.  "  Walk  in,  walk  in,"  said  he,  wreathed  in 
smiles.  "Be  careful,"  added  he,  laying  hold  of  the 
Don's  arm,  as  the  lattor's  feet  seemed  disposed  to  fly 
from  under  him, — "  the  floor  is  as  smooth  as  glass." 

"  So  I  perceive.  Why,  what  on  earth  can  you  do  with 
such  a  room  in  the  country?"  And  the  Don  lifted  his 
eyes  to  the  very  lofty  ceiling. 

"  That's  the  question !"  observed  Mr.  Whacker,  giving 
Charley  a  knowing  look. 

"  One  would  say  it  was  a  ball-room,"  said  the  Don, 
looking  down  upon  the  perfectly  polished  floor,  in 
which  their  figures  stood  reflected  as  in  a  mirror. 

"  It  would  do  very  well  for  that,"  said  the  old  gentle 
man.  "  I  think  it  would  puzzle  you  to  find  the  joints 
in  that  floor,"  he  added,  stooping  down  and  running 
his  thumb  nail  across  a  number  of  the  very  narrow 
planks.  "  You  observe,  the  room  is  ceiled  throughout 
with  heart-pine, — no  plastering  anywhere.  I  used,  as 
you  see,  the  darker  wood  for  the  floor,  and  selected  the 
lightest-colored  planks  for  the  ceiling  ;  while  I  made 
the  two  shades  alternate  on  the  walls.  You  think  so? 
Well,  I  think  it  ought  to  be,  for  I  was  several  years 
collecting  and  selecting  the  lumber  for  this  room, — not 
a  plank  that  I  did  not  inspect  carefully.  And  so  you 
think  it  would  make  a  good  ball-room  ?  So  it  would, 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  131 

in  fact.  Thirty  feet  by  twenty  would  give  room  for  a 
goodly  number  of  twinkling  feet." 

"  I  see  a  piano  at  the  other  end  of  the  room." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Whacker,  leaning  forward,  his  fingers 
interlaced  behind  his  back,  and  his  smiling  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  floor.  He  was  giving  the  Don  time, — he  had 
not  seen  everything  in  the  room. 

"  What !"  exclaimed  the  latter,  suddenly,  as  his  eyes 
chanced  to  stray  into  a  corner  of  the  room,  which  was 
rather  dark  with  its  closed  blinds.  "Is  not  that  a  violin- 
case  standing  in  the  corner?" 

"  Yes,  that's  a  violin  case,"  rejoined  Mr.  Whacker, 
softly,  while  his  eyes  made  an  involuntary  movement 
in  the  direction  of  the  neighboring  corner. 

"And  another!"  exclaimed  the  Don,  "and  still 
another !  and,  upon  my  word,  there  is  a  violoncello  in 
the  fourth  coi'nerl" 

My  grandfather  threw  his  head  back  as  though  he 
would  gaze  upon  the  ceiling,  but  closed  his  eyes ;  and 
rocking  gently  back  and  forth,  and  softly  flapping  upon 
the  floor  with  both  feet,  was  silent  for  a  while.  He  was 
content.  The  surprise  of  the  stranger  had  been  com 
plete, — dramatically  complete, — his  wondering  admira 
tion  obvious  and  sincere. 

Charley  watched  his  friend  quietly,  with  a  tender 
humor  in  his  eyes.  He  had  witnessed  a  number  of 
similar  scenes  in  this  room,  but  this  had  been  the  most 
entirely  successful  of  them  all. 

"The  third  box,"  resumed  my  grandfather,  softly, 
with  his  eyes  still  closed,  and  still  rocking  from  heel  to 
toe,  "  contains  a  viola." 

"A  viola!  Then  you  have  a  complete  set  of  quartet 
instruments  I"  And  he  turned,  looking  from  case  to  case, 
as  if  to  make  sure  that  he  saw  aright.  "  What  a  droll, 
divorced  air  they  have  in  this  great  room,  each  solitary 
in  his  own  corner !  Surely  you  can  never — " 

"  Never  use  them  ?"  And  my  grandfather  paused  with 
a  smile  on  his  face.  "  I  find  this  room  rather  cold.  Let 
us  adjourn  to  the  Library  and  I  will  tell  you  how  we 
manage." 


132  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFI. 


CHAPTEE  XX. 

So,  while  Mr.  Whacker  is  explaining  matters  to  the 
Don,  I  shall  make  things  clear  to  the  reader. 

My  grandfather,  when  a  young  man,  spent  several 
years  in  Europe.  He  was  an  enthusiast  in  every  fibre, 
and  one  of  his  enthusiasms  was  music.  Very  naturally, 
therefore,  he  took  lessons  while  abroad, — lessons  on  the 
violin,  the  p'iano  being  held,  in  Virginia,  an  instrument 
fit  only  for  women  and  foreigners.  But,  undertaking 
the  violin  for  the  first  time  when  he  was  a  grown  man, 
he  never  acquired,  ardently  as  he  practised,  anything 
like  a  mastery  over  that  difficult  instrument.  At  any 
rate,  returning  to  Virginia  and  finding  himself  no  longer 
in  an  artist-atmosphere,  his  ardor  gradually  cooled,  so 
that  until  about  ten  or  twelve  years  before  the  period 
of  my  story,  all  I  can  remember  of  my  grandfather's 
musical  performances  is  his  occasional  fiddling  for  me 
and  such  of  my  young  school-mates  as  chanced  to  visit 
me.  During  the  Christmas  holidays,  especially,  when 
Elmington  was  always  crowded  with  young  people,  it 
was  an  understood  thing  that  Uncle  Tom,  as  most  of 
his  neighbors'  children  delighted  to  call  him,  was  to  be 
asked  to  play.  Christmas  Eve,  notably,  was  no  more 
Christmas  Eve,  at  Elmington,  without  certain  jigs  and 
reels  executed  by  "  Uncle  Tom,"  than  without  two 
enormous  bowls — one  of  eggnog,  the  other  of  apple- 
toddy — concocted  by  him  with  his  own  hands.  The 
thing  had  grown  into  an  institution,  more  and  more 
fixed  as  the  years  went  by.  On  such  occasions,  im 
mediately  after  the  old  gentleman  had  taken  his  second 
glass  of  eggnog, — not  before, — it  was  in  order  to  call 
for  his  annual  exhibition  of  virtuosity;  whereupon 
Charley — no  one  else  could  be  trusted  to  bear  the  pre 
cious  burden — was  despatched  to  my  grandfather's 
chamber,  where,  upon  a  special  shelf  in  a  closet,  lay, 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  133 

from   Christmas   to   Christmas,  a   certain    old   violin, 
which  rarely  saw  the  light  at  any  other  time. 

But,  about  a  dozen  years  before  the  events  I  am  now 
describing,  there  came  a  German  musician — Wolffgang 
Amadeus  Waldteufel  chanced  to  be  his  name — and  es 
tablished  himself  at  Leicester  Court-House  as  a  piano 
teacher, — or,  rather,  he  gave  lessons  on  any  and  all 
instruments,  as  will  be  the  case  in  the  country. 

Herr  Waldteufel  was  an  excellent  pianist,  and,  in 
fact,  a  thorough  musician.  Strangers  from  the  cities, 
when  they  heard  him  play  at  Elmington,  were  always 
surprised  to  find  so  brilliant  a  performer  in  the  country, 
and  used  to  wonder  why  he  should  thus  hide  his  light 
under  a  bushel.  But  the  truth  is,  a  man  generally  finds 
his  place  in  the  world,  and  Herr  Waldteufel  was  no 
exception.  In  the  frequent  hinges  of  his  elbow  was  to 
be  found  the  explanation  of  his  losing  his  patronage,  in 
city  after  city ;  so  that  it  was  natural  enough  that  he 
found  himself,  at  last,  giving  lessons  in  a  village,  and 
in  the  houses  of  the  neighboring  gentry,  upon  piano, 
fiddle,  flute,  guitar,  and,  shades  of  Sebastian  Bach! 
must  I  even  add — the  banjo  ? 

And,  notwithstanding  his  weakness,  the  honest  Herr 
was  an  excellent  teacher.  True,  he  did  occasionally 
fail  to  put  in  an  appearance  for  a  lesson,  when  no  ex 
cuse  was  to  be  found  in  the  weather ;  but  his  patrons 
learned  to  forgive  him ;  and,  as  he  was  very  amiable 
and  obliging,  he  was  a  general  favorite,  and  welcome 
everywhere. 

Mr.  Whacker  had  not  been  slow  to  form  the  acquaint 
ance  of  the  Herr  and  to  invite  him  to  Elmington ;  at 
first  under  the  pretext  of  having  him  tune  his  piano. 
The  tuning  over,  the  Herr  was  naturally  asked  to 
play ;  and,  one  thing  leading  to  another,  he  and  Mr. 
Whacker  soon  found  themselves  trying  over  a  slow 
movement,  here  and  there,  out  of  a  musty  and  dusty 
old  edition  of  Mozart's  Sonatas.  The  music  they  made 
was,  I  dare  say,  wretched,  as  my  grandfather  had  not 
played  anything  of  that  kind  for  years ;  but  it  would 
have  been  hard  to  say  which  of  the  two  was  most  de 
lighted, — the  German,  at  finding  so  enthusiastic  a  lover 

12 


134  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

of  his  art  in  a  Virginia  country  gentleman  ;  my  grand- 
father,  at  the  prospect  of  being  able  to  renew  his  ac 
quaintance  with  his  idolized  Mozart,  whom  he  always 
persisted  in  placing  at  the  head  of  all  composers.  The 
Elmington  dinner  and  wines  did  not  lessen  the  Herr's 
estimate  of  the  treasure  he  had  found ;  and  (Mr. 
Whacker  scouting  the  very  idea  of  his  leaving  him 
that  night)  they  separated  at  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  after  a  regular  musical 
orgie,  vowing  that  they  had  not  seen  the  last  of  it. 
Nor  had  they ;  for  before  Herr  Waldteufel  had  set  out, 
in  the  morning,  for  a  round  of  lessons  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  he  had  promised  to  return,  the  following  Friday, 
to  dinner.  And  so,  from  that  day  forth,  he  was  sure 
to  drop  in  upon  us  every  Friday  afternoon ;  and  regu 
larly,  after  dinner,  he  and  my  grandfather  would  fall 
to  and  play  and  play  until  they  were  exhausted.  Next 
day  the  Herr  would  sally  forth,  and,  after  giving  his 
lessons,  return  in  time  for  dinner;  after  which  they 
would  have  another  time  together. 

Herr  Waldteufel  always  spent  Sunday  with  us;  but 
my  grandfather  would  never  play  on  that  day.  I  sup 
pose  it  would  be  hardly  possible  for  a  man  who  has 
spent  several  years  on  the  Continent  to  see  anything 
"  sinful"  in  music  on  Sunday ;  but  neither  is  it  possible 
for  any  man,  even  though  he  be  a  philosopher,  alto 
gether  to  evade  the  pressure  of  surrounding  convictions. 
Now,  for  the  solidity — it  wouldn't  do  to  say  stolidity — 
of  our  Sabbatarianism,  we  Virginians  may  safely  defy 
all  rivalry.  Virginia  is  not  only  one  of  the  Middle 
States,  she  is  the  middle  State  of  the  Union  in  many 
other  respects,  but  especially  in  her  theological  attitude. 
While,  to  the  north  and  east  of  her,  religious  systems 
that  have  weathered  the  storms  of  centuries  are  rock 
ing  to  their  foundations,  nay,  tumbling  before  our  very 
eyes,  undermined  by  the  incessant  rush  of  opinions 
ever  newer,  more  radical,  more  aggressive ;  and  while, 
to  the  southward  and  westward,  we  see  the  instability 
and  recklessness  inseparable  from  younger  communi 
ties,  the  Old  Dominion  stands  immovable  as  a  rock ; 
believing  what  she  has  always  believed,  and  seriously 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  135 

minded  so  to  believe  to  the  end  of  time, — astronomy, 

fiology,  and  biology  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding, 
ow,  of  all  the  religious  convictions  of  your  true  Vir 
ginian  this  is  the  most  deeply  rooted, — the  most  uni 
versally  accepted, — that  man  was  made  for  the  Sabbath, 
not  the  Sabbath  for  man.  Again:  according  to  our 
biblical  exegesis  the  word  Sabbath  does  not  really  mean 
Sabbath,  but  Sunday, — the  last  day  of  the  week,  that 
is,  being  synonymous  with  the  first.  Now,  as  first  is 
the  opposite  of  last, — mark  the  geometric  cogency  of 
the  reasoning, — so  is  work  the  contrary  of  play. 
Hence  it  is  clear  to  us  (however  others  may  laugh) 
that  the  commandment  forbidding  all  manner  of  work 
on  the  last  day  of  the  week  was  really  meant  to  in 
hibit  all  manner  of  play  on  the  first ;  Q.  E.  D. 

I  must  admit,  however,  that  when,  one  Sunday,  after 
returning  from  church,  the  Herr  opened  the  piano, 
"just  to  try  over"  the  hymns  we  had  heard,  my  grand 
father  made  no  objection  ;  and  then,  when  his  fingers 
somehow  strayed  into  a  classical  andante,  the  old  gen 
tleman  either  believed  or  affected  to  believe  that  it  was 
a  Teutonic  form  of  religious  music,  and  called  for 
moi'e.  And  so,  things  going  from  bad  to  worse,  it 
came  about  that  in  the  end  we  had  hours  of  piano 
music  every  Sunday,  to  the  great  scandal  of  some  of 
our  neighbors,  who  did  not  fail  to  hint  that  the  Herr 
was  an  atheist  and  my  grandfather  not  far  from  one. 

But  Mr.  Whacker  would  persist  in  drawing  the  line 
at  the  fiddle ;  making  a  distinction  perfectly  intelligible 
to  all  true  Yirginians, — though  his  course  in  this  matter 
ever  remained  a  sore  puzzle  to  the  warped  and  effete 
European  brain  of  Herr  Wolffgang  Amadeus  Wald- 
teufel. 

For  many  months — for  two  or  three  years,  in  fact — 
after  this  arrangement  was  set  on  foot,  my  grandfather 
was  at  fever  heat  with  his  music.  To  the  amazement, 
not  to  add  amusement  of  his  neighbors  and  friends,  he 
fell  to  practising  with  all  the  ardor  of  a  girl  in  her 
graduating  year ;  nor  was  he  content  to  stop  there. 
He  set  every  one  else,  over  whom  he  had  any  influ 
ence,  to  scraping  catgut.  His  favorite  text  during  this 


136  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

period,  and  one  upon  which  he  preached  with  much 
vigor  and  eloquence,  was  the  insipidity  of  American 
life, — its  total  lack  of  the  aesthetic  element. 

"  What  rational  relaxations  have  we  ?  None !  Whist 
is  adapted  to  those  among  us  of  middle  age,  or  the 
old ;  but  whist  is,  at  the  best,  unsocial.  Dancing 
gives  happiness  to  the  young  only.  Hunting  affords 
amusement  during  one  season  and  to  one  sex  only. 
You  cannot  read  forever ;  so  that  the  greater  part  of 
our  leisure-time  we  spend  in  gaping  or  gabbling, — bor 
ing  or  being  bored.  How  different  it  would  be  if  all 
our  young  people  would  take  the  trouble  to  make  mu 
sicians  of  themselves!  one  taking  one  instrument, 
another  another.  Why,  look  at  our  neighbor  up  the 
river,  with  his  five  sons  and  five  daughters!  Why — 
PSHAW !" — for,  invariably,  when  he  got  to  this  parti 
cular  neighbor,  the  bright  vision  of  a  possible  domestic 
orchestra  of  ten — or  twelve  rather — would  seem  to  rob 
him  of  the  power  of  utterance,  and  he  would  pace  up 
and  down  his  library  with  an  expression  of  enthusi 
astic  disgust  on  his  heated  features. 

Now,  among  the  victims  of  Mr.  Whacker's  views  in 
this  regard  was  his  grandson,  the  teller  of  this  tale ; 
and  I  believe  it  was  really  one  of  the  most  serious  of 
the  minor  troubles  of  his  life  that  he  could  never  make 
a  musician  of  me.  As  it  was,  he  ultimately  gave  me 
up  as  a  hopeless  case.  But  with  Charley  his  reward 
was  greater.  Charley  had  readily  consented  to  take 
lessons  on  the  violin  from  Herr  Waldteufel,  as  well  be 
fore  he  entered  the  University,  as  during  his  vacations ; 
and  when,  after  he  left  college,  he  came  to  live  with  us, 
he  was  not  likely  to  give  up  his  music,  as  the  reader 
can  very  well  understand.  During  the  week  he  and 
his  friend  used  to  play  duos  together,  and  they  made 
very  pleasant  music  too,  and  on  Fridays  and  Saturdays 
they  would  perform  transcriptions  (at  making  which 
the  Herr  was  really  clever)  for  two  violins  and  piano. 

Things  went  on  in  this  way  for  a  year  or  two ;  until, 
in  fact,  the  summer  of  1855.  It  was  during  the  sum 
mer  of  that  year,  it  will  be  remembered,  that  Norfolk 
was  so  terribly  scourged  by  yellow  fever,  and  my 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  137 

grandfather,  instead  of  going,  as  usual,  to  the  springs, 
had  remained  at  Elmington,  and  opened  his  doors  to 
his  friends  and  other  refugees  from  the  stricken  city. 
Now  it  so  happened  that,  a  few  weeks  before  the  epi 
demic  declared  itself,  a  young  French  or — to  speak 
more  accurately — Belgian  violinist  had  dropped  down 
into  Norfolk,  from  somewhere,  in  search  of  a  living ; 
who,  panic-stricken  upon  the  outbreak  of  the  fever,  had 
fled,  he  hardly  knew  whither ;  but  happening  to  find 
his  way  to  Leicester  Court-Hous,e,  was  not  long  in  fall 
ing  in  with  Herr  Waldteufel ;  and  he,  exulting  in  the 
treasure  he  had  found,  brought  him  to  Elmington  on 
the  first  Friday  afternoon  thereafter  ensuing. 

"  I  have  inform  Monsieur  Villemain,"  whispered  the 
Herr,  at  the  first  opportunity,  "  dot  Elmingtone  vas 
so  full  as  a  teek  von  peoples,  but  he  can  shleep  mit 
me.  But  you  know,  Barrone,  vy  I  have  bring  dis 
Frenchman,  oder  Beige,  to  Elmington-e  ?"  (He  would 
insist  upon  calling  Mr.  Whacker  Baron.) 

"  I  suppose  he  is  a  refugee,  and  you  knew — " 

"  A  refuchee !  ja  wohl  I  Ach !  but  mein  Gott,  Bar- 
rone,"  exclaimed  he,  clasping  his  hands,  "vat  for  a 
feedler  ist  dot  mon !" 

"  You  don't  tell  me  so  !" 

"  Donnerwetter !"  rejoined  the  Herr,  rolling  up  his 
eyes,  "you  joost  hear  him  one  time,  dot's  all!" 

From  that  day  in  August  until  the  following  Christ 
mas  M.  Villemain  was  a  member  of  our  household ; 
and  even  then  he  took  his  departure  much  against  my 
grandfather's  will.  His  coming  among  us  enabled  Mr. 
Whacker  to  do  what  he  had  scarcely  dreamed  of  before, 
— to  establish,  namely,  a  string  quartet. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  first  meeting  of  the  club. 
Waldteufel,  who  was  already  a  tolerable  violinist,  had 
readily  agreed  to  take  the  violoncello  part,  and  Charley, 
though  with  many  misgivings,  had  consented  to  tackle 
the  viola ;  and  the  Herr  was  despatched  to  Baltimore 
to  purchase  these  two  instruments.  Upon  their  arrival, 
it  was  agreed  that  the  novices  should  have  two  weeks' 
practice  before  any  attempt  at  concerted  music  should 
be  made,  Waldteufel  taking  his  'cello  to  his  rooms  at 

12* 


138  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

the  Court-House,  while  Charley  was  to  attack  the  viola 
under  the  direction  of  M.  Villemain  ;  but  Mr.  Whacker 

frew  so  impatient  for  a  trial  of  their  mettle  that,  on 
'riday  morning  of  the  first  week,  he  sent  a  buggy  for 
the  Herr,  requesting  him  to  bring  his  instrument  with 
him  ;  and,  accordingly,  just  before  dinner,  up  drove 
the  bass,  his  big  fiddle  occupying  the  lion's  share  of  the 
vehicle.  Dinner  over,  my  grandfather  could  allow  but 
one  pipe  before  the  attack  began.  The  centre-table  in 
the  parlor  was  soon  cleared  of  books ;  the  stands  were 
placed  upon  it ;  the  performers  took  their  seats ;  the 
parts  were  distributed,  "  A"  sounded,  the  instruments 
put  in  tune.  The  composition  they  had  selected  was 
that  quartet  of  Haydn  (in  C  major)  known  as  the 
Kaiser  Quartet,  in  the  slow  movement  of  which  is 
found  the  famous  Austrian  Hymn. 

"  We  are  all  then  ready  ?"  asked  M.  Villemain  (in 
French),  placing,  his  violin  under  his  chin.  "  Ah  1" 
added  he,  in  that  short  sharp  tone  so  peculiarly  French, 
and  the  bows  descended  upon  the  strings. 

It  was  worth  while  to  watch  the  bearing  and  coun 
tenances  of  the  four  players. 

The  Frenchman,  entirely  master  of  his  instrument 
and  his  part, — glancing  only  now  and  then  at  his  music, 
— ejaculating  words  of  caution  or  encouragement ; 
Waldteufel,  taking  in  the  meaning  of  the  printed  signs 
without  an  effort,  but  doubtful  as  to  his  fingering, — cor 
recting  his  intonation  with  a  rapid  slide  of  his  hand 
and  an  apologetic  smile  and  nod  to  his  brother  artist ; 
Charley,  serene  and  imperturbable,  but  putting  forth 
all  that  was  in  him ;  while  my  grandfather,  conscious 
that  the  second  violin  was  most  likely  to  prove  the 
block  of  stumbling,  and  anxious  not  to  be  utterly  out 
done  by  the  "  boys," — his  eyes  riveted  upon  the  page 
before  him,  his  face  overspread  with  a  certain  stage- 
fright  pallor, — played  as  though  the  fate  of  kingdoms 
hung  upon  his  bow.  At  last,  not  without  a  half-dozen 
break-downs,  they  approached  the  end  of  the  first  move 
ment  ;  and  when,  with  a  sharp  twang,  they  struck,  all 
together,  the  last  note,  my  grandfather's  exultation 
knew  no  bounds. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  139 

"  By  Jove,"  cried  he,  slapping  his  thigh, — "  by  Jove, 
we  can  do  it !"  And  congratulations  were  general. 

But  the  culmination  of  the  enthusiasm  occurred 
during  the  performance  of  the  slow  movement.  Here 
the  air,  a  gem  of  imperishable  beauty,  passes  from  one 
instrument  to  another.  When  the  theme  falls  to  the 
second  violin,  the  violino  primo  accompanies,  the  viola 
and  'cello  being  silent,  if  I  remember  aright.  Here 
was  Mr.  Whacker's  opportunity.  The  movement  is 
without  technical  difficulties,  but  the  mere  idea  that  he 
had  a  solo  to  perform  made  the  old  gentleman  as  ner 
vous  as  a  graduating  Miss.  He  lightly  touched  his 
strings  to  be  quite  sure  they  were  in  tune — gave  a 
turn  to  a  peg — wiped  his  spectacles — blew  his  nose — 
lifted  the  violin  to  his  left  ear,  softly  plucking  D  and 
G  as  though  still  in  doubt — smoothed  down  the  page 
— tightened  his  bow — and,  with  a  bow  to  M.  Villemain, 
began. 

He  had  scarcely  played  a  half-dozen  notes  when  the 
Herr  cried  out,  "  Goot  for  de  Barrone!" 

"  Bravo,  Secondo !"  echoed  the  Primo  from  the  midst 
of  his  rapid  semiquavers. 

Deeply  gratified  and  encouraged,  the  old  man  gave 
an  unconscious  but  perceptible  toss  of  the  head ;  and 
his  snowy  locks  trembled  upon  his  temples.  Charley 
lifted  his  eyes  from  the  floor  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 
His  anxiety  lest  his  old  friend  should  break  down  had 
been  touching  to  see, — the  more  so  as  he  had  tried  so 
hard  to  conceal  it. 

The  performer  reached  the  appoggiatura  about  the 
middle  of  the  air,  and  turned  it  not  without  grace.  It 
was  nothing  to  do, — absolutely  nothing, — but  the  two 
artists  were  bent  on  giving  applause  without  stint. 

"  Parbleu !  Tourne  d  merveille  /"  cried  the  First 
Violin,  in  his  native  language. 

"Py  Tarn!"  shouted  the  Bass,  in  an  unknown 
tongue. 

"  Je  crois  bien  I"  rejoined  the  Belgian,  as  though  he 
understood  him. 

One  of  the  Herr's  foibles  was  his  fondness  for  mak 
ing  what  it  was  his  happiness  to  consider  puns  in  the 


140  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

English  language.  "  De  Barrone  served  us  a  good  turn 
dere !"  he  whispered  to  his  unoccupied  comrade. 

The  Yiola  smiled  without  taking  his  eyes  off  the 
Second  Fiddle. 

"You  take?"  inquired  the  Violoncello,  stimulating 
his  neighbor's  sense  of  humor  by  a  gentle  punch  in 
the  ribs  with  his  bow. 

"Very  good,  very  good!"  answered  Charley;  and 
my  grandfather,  taking  the  compliment  to  himself, 
rather  laid  himself  out  on  a  crescendo  and  forte  that  he 
encountered  just  then. 

Mr.  Whacker  had  practised  his  part  over,  hundreds 
of  times,  during  the  week  preceding  its  execution  by 
him  on  this  occasion,  and  he  really  played  it  very  credi 
tably.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  therefore,  that,  at 
its  end,  he  should  have  been  greeted  with  a  small  tem 
pest  of  clappings  and  bravos  and  goots ;  and  it  re 
mained  his  conviction  ever  after,  that  of  all  the  quar 
tets  of  Haydn,  the  Kaiser  most  nearly  approaches  the 
unapproachable  perfection  of  Mozart. 

He  looked  at  the  matter  from  the  Second  Violin 
point  of  view.  Who  shall  cast  the  first  stone  ? 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

MEANWHILE,  Mr.  Whacker  has  not  been  idle.  He  has 
been  giving  his  wondering  and  interested  guest  an  ac 
count  of  what  I  have  just  narrated  to  the  reader; 
omitting,  naturally,  many  things  that  I  have  said  ; 
saying  many  things  that  I  have  omitted ;  telling  his 
story,  that  is,  in  his  own  way.  Let  us  drop  in  upon 
them  and  see  where  they  are. 

"This  was  in  1855, — five  years  ago.  How  have  you 
managed  to  supply  M.  Villemain's  place  during  all  this 
time?  Have  you  succeeded  in  developing  the  local 
talent?" 

"  Local  talent?  Bless  you,  no.  I  labored  faithfully 
with  my  grandson,  but  had  to  give  him  up, — no  taste 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  141 

that  way.  Then  there  was  a  young  fellow,  the  son  of 
a  neighbor, — young  William  Jones, — who  is  now  at  the 
University.  I  had  great  hopes  of  him  when  he  began 
to  take  lessons ;  but  the  scamp  was  too  lazy  to  practise 
his  exercises,  and  pretended  he  couldn't  see  any  tune  in 
classical  music.  Perfectly  absurd !  However,"  quickly 
added  Mr.  Whacker,  observing  that  his  guest  was 
silent,  "the  majority  are  of  his  way  of  thinking.  Bill 
is  a  capital  fiddler,  however,  and  is  invaluable  at  our 
dancing  parties.  He  will  be  down  Christmas,  and  you 
will  hear  him." 

"  I  should  like  very  much  to  do  so,"  replied  the  Don, 
rather  stiffly. 

"  His  '  Arkansas  Traveller'  is  an  acknowledged  m- 
m-m-masterpiece,"  chimed  in  Charley,  "and  his  'B-B- 
B-Billy  in  the  Low  Grounds'  the  despair  of  every  other 
fiddler  in  the  county." 

"  I  should  like  very  much  indeed  to  hear  him,"  said 
the  stranger,  laughing  heartily  at  Charley's  neatly 
turned  phrase,  over  which  his  stammering  threw  a 
quaint  halo  of  added  humor.  "  And  so  you  had  to  give 
him  up  also,  Mr.  Whacker  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  had  to  give  them  all  up,  except  Charley 
here."  And  he  gave  that  young  man's  knee  a  vigorous 
slap,  accompanied  with  an  admiring  glance.  "  You 
could  hardly  guess  how  I  manage.  You  see  Mr.  Wald- 
teufel  visits  Baltimore  twice  a  year  to  lay  in  a  stock  of 
music  and  other  articles  needed  by  his  pupils,  and  he 
has  instructions  to  look  about  him  and  pick  up,  if  pos 
sible,  some  violinist  newly  landed  in  the  country,  or  one 
temporarily  out  of  employment;  or  perhaps  he  may 
find  an  artist  desiring  a  vacation,  to  whom  a  few  weeks 
in  the  country  would  be  a  tempting  bait.  All  such  he 
is  at  liberty  to  invite  to  Blmington, — provided,  of 
course,"  added  Mr.  Whacker,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand, 
"provided  they  be  proper  persons." 

"  Or  the  reverse,"  soliloquized  Charley,  prying  nar 
rowly,  as  he  spoke,  into  the  bowl  of  his  pipe. 

«Or  the  what?" 

"  I  addressed  an  observation  to  my  p-p-p-pipe." 

"  Well,  suppose  they  are  sometimes  rather — in  fact— 


142  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

rather — what  difference,  pray,  does  it  make  to  us  two 
bachelors  ?  You  will  no  doubt  think,  Mr.  Smitb,  that 
this  is  a  quartet  under  difficulties, — and  so  it  is,  but  it 
is  a  quartet  after  all.  If  not,  in  dissenting  phrase,  a 
'  stated,'  it  is,  at  least,  an  '  occasional  service  of  song.' " 

"  Goot  for  de  Barrone  !"  quoted  Charley. 

"  Then  again,  I  not  infrequently  invite  the  leader  of 
some  watering-place  band  to  drop  in  on  us,  for  a  week 
or  so,  on  the  closing  of  the  season  at  the  Springs. 
They  are  generally  excellent  musicians,  and  glad 
enough,  after  a  summer  of  waltzes  and  polkas,  to  re 
fresh  themselves  with  a  little  real  music.  So  you  see 
that,  after  all,  where  there  is  a  will  there  is  a  way. 
Provide  yourself  with  a  cage,  and  some  one  will  be  sure 
to  give  you  a  bird ;  build  a  house,  and — " 

'  The  r-r-r-rats  will  soon  come." 

'  I  was  going  to  say  a  wife — " 

'  Oh,  then,  instead  of  r-r-r-rats,  it's  br-br-br-brats  1" 

'  You  see,"  continued  my  grandfather,  laughing,  "  I 
have  the  Hall  there  for  a  cage." 

'  Yes,  but  where  is  your  bird,  your  fourth  player  ?" 

'Very  true,  the  bird  is  lacking  just  at  present.  The 
truth  is,  we  have  had  poor  luck  of  late.  We  have  not 
had  any  quartet  music  for  a  year, — not  even  our  quar 
tets  where  the  piano  takes  the  place  of  one  of  the 
violins,  owing  to  the  absence  of  our  young-lady  artiste. 
By  the  way,  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  in  speaking  of  our 
local  talent,  that  one  of  our  girls  is  an  excellent  pianist, 
and  that  through  her  we  have  been  enabled  (until  the 
past  year)  to  keep  up  our  quartet  evenings,  in  the  ab 
sence  of  a  first  violin ;  the  main  trouble  being  that  I 
am  hardly  equal  to  my  part — that  of  the  first  violin — in 
these  compositions, — Lucy  Poythress.  You  know  her  ?" 
asked  Mr.  Whacker,  on  observing  the  sudden  interest 
in  the  Don's  face. 

"  Why,  Uncle  Tom,  Mr.  Smith  saved  her  life  J  Don't 
you  remember  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  of  course !  you  must  pardon  an  old 
man's  tricks  of  memory !" 

"  Miss  Poythress  is  a  good  musician  ?" 

"  Oh,  wonderful,  we  think.     She  was  the  only  one  of 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  143 

Mr.  Waldteufel's  pupils  who  had  the  least  fancy  for 
classical  music.  She  seemed  to  feel  its  meaning  from 
the  very  first,  and  I  hardly  know  what  we  should  have 
done  without  her.  For  several  years — ever  since  she 
was  fourteen,  in  fact — she  has  been  playing  with  us ; 
in  quartet  when  we  needed  her,  a  solo  between  our 
Haj^dn  and  Mozart  when  we  happened  to  have  a  first 
violin.  You  should  know  her, — know  her  well,  I  mean. 
So  much  character,  and  yet  so  gentle !  Such  depth  of 
soul !  In  fact,  she  is  an  incomparable  girl !  I  must 
confess,  I  never  cease  to  wonder  how  Charley,  here — " 

"  There  you  go  again,  Uncle  Tom  !" 

"  This  good-for-nothing  fellow,  Mr.  Smith,  has,  for 
several  years,  been  crossing  the  river,  Friday  after 
noons,  to  fetch  her  and  her  mother  to  our  quartet 
parties, — taking  them  back,  and  spending  the  night 
under  the  same  roof  with  this  noble  girl, — breakfasting 
with  her  next  morning, — and  yet —  Where  would  you 
find  another  sister,  eh  ?" 

Charley  rose,  and,  after  walking  about  the  room  and 
glancing  at  the  books  in  an  aimless  sort  of  way,  with 
out  other  reply  than  a  smile,  descended  the  steps  and 
stood  on  the  lawn  with  his  fingers  interlaced  behind 
his  back. 

"That's  what  he  would  have  said,"  added  Mr. 
Whacker  in  an  undertone,  "  had  you  not  been  present ; 
or  else,  that  if  Mrs.  Poythress  were  his  mother-in-law, 
what  should  he  do  for  a  mother  ?  He  is  a  singular 
fellow, — a  'regular  character,'  as  the  saying  is.  He 
has  the  greatest  aversion  to  giving  expression  to  his 
feelings,  and  fancies  that  he  hides  them, — though  ho 
succeeds  about  as  well  as  the  fabled  ostrich.  The  truth 
is,  he  has  the  warmest  attachment  for  Lucy  (I  wish  it 
were  only  a  little  warmer),  but  a  still  greater  affection 
for  her  mother.  There  are,  in  fact,"  added  Mr.  Whacker, 
lowering  his  voice  into  a  mysterious  whisper,  "  peculiar 
reasons  for  his  devotion  to  her  and  hers  to  him, — but  it 
is  a  sad  story  which  I  will  not  go  into ;  but,  for  ten  or 
fifteen  years — ever,  at  least,  since  a  cruel  bereavement 
she  experienced — he  has  made  it  a  rule  to  spend,  if  at 
all  possible,  one  night  of  every  week  under  her  roof. 


144  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

This  weekly  visit  is  a  pleasure  to  Charley,  but  it  seems 
to  be  a  necessity  with  poor  Mrs.  Poythress.  No 
weather  can  keep  him  back.  Fair  or  foul,  go  he  will ; 
and,  on  one  occasion,  he  spent  a  night  in  the  water, 
clinging  to  his  capsized  boat.  '  I  can't  help  it,  Uncle 
Tom,'  he  will  say ;  '  she  misses  my  visit  so.'  " 

"My  God!"  cried  the  stranger,  in  a  voice  of  piercing 
anguish ;  and,  leaping  from  his  seat,  he  stood  with  his 
temples  pressed  between  his  hands  and  his  powerful 
frame  convulsed  with  emotion. 

Had  my  grandfather  been  a  man  of  more  tact,  he 
could  not  have  failed  to  remark  in  the  dancing  eyes, 
twitching  mouth,  and  pallid  features  of  his  guest  the 
symptoms  of  a  coming  storm.  As  it  was,  it  burst  upon 
him  like  a  bolt  from  a  cloudless  sky.  He  stood  aghast ; 
and  to  the  eager  inquiring  glances  of  Charley,  who 
had  sprung  into  the  room  on  hearing  the  cry  and  the 
noise  of  the  falling  chair,  he  could  only  return,  for 
answer,  a  look  of  utter  bewilderment.  The  stranger 
had  turned,  on  Charley's  entrance  upon  the  scene,  and 
was  supporting  his  head  upon  his  hand,  against  the 
sash  of  the  rear  window. 

"  I  eannot  imagine  /"  silently  declaimed  and  disclaimed 
my  grandfather. 

"  I  hope — "  began  Charley,  advancing. 

The  Guest,  as  though  afraid  to  trust  his  voice,  with 
a  turn  of  his  head  flashed  a  kindly  smile  upon  Charley, 
accompanied  by  a  deprecatory  motion  of  the  hand,  and 
again  averted  his  face  as  though  not  yet  master  of  his 
features ;  but,  a  moment  after,  he  straightened  himself, 
suddenly,  and  turning,  advanced  towards  his  host. 

"  Mr.  Whacker,"  he  began,  with  a  grave  smile,  "  I 
beg  you  a  thousand  pardons.  There  are  certain  par 
allelisms  in  life — I  mean  that  you  inadvertently  touched 
a  chord  that  quite  overmastered  me  for  the  moment. 
Forgive  me."  And,  taking  my  grandfather's  hand,  he 
bowed  over  it  with  deep  humility.  Turning  then  to 
Charley,  who,  the  reader  will  bear  in  mind,  had  not 
heard  the  words  of  Mr.  Whacker  that  had  wrought  the 
explosion,  the  Guest,  to  Charley's  great  astonishment, 
grasped  both  his  hands  with  a  fervid  grip,  but  averted 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  145 

look ;  then  abruptly  dropping  his  hands,  he  seized  his 
hat  and  strode  out  of  the  door ;  leaving  our  two  friends 
in  blank  amazement.  They  stood  staring  at  each  other 
with  wide  eyes.  At  last,  Charley  raised  his  hand  and 
tapped  his  forehead  with  his  forefinger,  then  went  to 
the  door  and  looked  out. 

"  By  Jove,"  cried  he,  "  he  is  making  straight  for  the 
river !"  And,  hatless  as  he  was,  he  sprang  to  the  ground 
and  started  after  him,  at  a  run — for  the  Guest  was 
swinging  along  with  giant  strides.  Charley's  heart 
beat  quick,  when  the  stranger,  reaching  the  shore, 
stopped  suddenly,  stretching  out  both  his  arms  toward 
the  opposite  bank  with  wild,  passionate  gestures.  The 
pursuer  was  about  to  cry  out,  when  the  pursued,  turn 
ing  sharply  to  the  left,  moved  on  again,  as  rapidly  as 
before.  It  was  then  that,  either  hearing  Charley's 
hurrying  steps,  or  by  chance  turning  his  head,  he 
saw  that  he  was  followed.  He  stopped  instantly ;  and, 
coming  forward  to  meet  Charley : 

"  I  must  ask  pardon  again,"  said  he,  with  extended 
hand.  "  I  should  have  told  you  that  I  was  going  out 
for  a  good  long  walk.  I  shall  be  back  before  din 
ner." 

"All  right!" 

The  Guest  doffed  his  hat  and  began  to  move  on 
again ;  but  Charley,  seized  with  a  sudden  remnant  of 
suspicion,  stopped  him  with  a  motion  of  his  hand. 
"Kemember,"  said  he,  going  close  up  to  him,  and 
speaking  in  a  low  but  earnest  tone, — "  remember,  you 
have  two  good  friends  yonder."  And,  with  a  toss  of  his 
upturned  thumb,  he  pointed,  over  his  shoulder,  towards 
the  house,  which  lay  behind  them ;  and  young  Fro- 
bisher,  feeling  that  he  had  said  much,  cast  his  eyes 
upon  the  ground,  bashful  as  a  girl. 

"  I  believe  you,"  said  the  guest ;  "  and,"  he  added 
with  earnestness,  "  the  belief  is  much  to  me — much, — 
see  you  at  dinner." 

Charley,  returning,  found  Mr.  "Whacker  standing  on 
the  lawn,  awaiting,  with  some  anxiety,  his  report. 

"  It's  all  right,  I  think.  Look  at  him !  See  how  he  is 
booming  along  the  bank!  But,  Uncle  Tom,  how  on 
o  k  13 


146  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

earth  did  you  and  Mr.  Smith  manage  to  get  up  those 
theatricals  ?" 

"  Hang  me  if  I  know !  We  were  talking,  as  quietly 
as  possible,  about  some  trivial  matter  or  other, — en 
tirely  trivial,  I  assure  you, — and,  all  of  a  sudden,  up  he 
leaped  in  the  air  as  though  he  had  been  shot.  Let  me 
see,  what  were  we  talking  about  ?"  And  Mr.  Whacker 
rested  his  forehead  upon  his  hand.  "  Let — me — see. 
No,  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  remember.  The  '  theat 
ricals,'  as  you  call  them,  must  have  driven  everything 
out  of  my  head ;  but  they  were  nothings  that  we  were 
saying,  1  assure  you." 

"You  remember  that,  when  I  left  the  room,  you 
were  teasing  me  about  not  falling  in  love  with  Lucy 
Poy  thress  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes ;  now  I  have  it !  Well,  after  you 
went  out,  I  told  him  what  friends  you  and  Mrs.  Poy- 
thress  were,  and  how  you  paid  her  a  weekly  visit,  rain 
or  shine, — ah,  yes,  and  how  once  you  were  upset,  when 
you  would  cross  the  river  in  spite  of  my  remonstrances, 
and  so  on  and  so  on." 

"  That  was  all  ?" 

"  Every  word.  Why,  you  were  not  out  of  the  room 
two  minutes!" 

"H'm!"  And  Charley  slowly  filled  his  pipe,  and, 
lighting  it,  went  out  upon  the  lawn,  where  he  walked 
haltingly  up  and  down  for  some  time.  Quickly  rais 
ing  his  eyes  at  last,  and  fixing  them  inquiringly  upon 
the  Poythress  mansion,  nestling  across  the  river,  in  its 
clump  of  trees,  he  gazed  at  it  with  a  look,  now  intent, 
now  abstracted.  "  Can  it  be  ?"  he  muttered ;  and  he 
stood  long,  chin  upon  breast,  buried  in  thought ;  but 
what  these  thoughts  were  he  breathed  to  no  man. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  147 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

So,  after  all,  my  grandfather  lost  his  opportunity  of 
explaining  to  the  Don  how  he  came  to  build  the  Hall. 
No  doubt  he  will  do  so  as  soon  as  the  latter  returns 
from  his  walk.  But  there  are  reasons  why  I  prefer  to 
give  my  own  account  of  the  matter.  The  truth  is,  I 
believe  my  narration  will  be  more  exactly  in  accord 
ance  with  the  facts  of  the  case  than  Mr.  Whacker's 
would  be.  For,  my  grandfather  (though  as  truthful 
as  ever  man  was)  having,  like  the  rest  of  us,  a  great 
deal  of  human  nature  in  him,  did  not  always  see  very 
clearly  what  his  own  motives  were ;  and,  had  he  been 
asked  why  he  had  constructed  this  rather  superfluous 
building,  would  have  given  an  answer  at  variance  with 
what  Charley's  or  mine  would  have  been.  Now,  had 
either  of  us  been  questioned,  confidentially,  and  apart 
from  our  friend,  we  would  have  unhesitatingly  affirmed 
that  he  had  built  the  Hall  as  a  home  for  his  quartet ; 
but  had  he,  perchance,  overheard  us,  he  would  have 
denied  this,  and  not  without  heat.  And  this  is  easily 
explicable. 

On  the  whole  subject  of  music — music,  whether 
quartet  or  solo,  vocal  or  instrumental — Mr.  Whacker 
had  grown  sore,  and. as  nearly  irritable  as  his  strong 
nature  admitted  of.  His  neighbors  had  worried  him. 
They — and  who  shall  wonder  at  it? — had  naturally 
been  filled  with  amazement — and,  what  is  harder  to 
bear — amusement — when  their  old  friend  had  suddenly, 
at  his  time  of  life,  burst  out,  as  the  homely  phrase  runs, 
in  a  fresh  place, — and  of  this  he  could  not  but  be  aware; 
BO  that  in  the  end  he  grew  so  sensitive  under  their 
jokes  that  he  altogether  gave  over  inviting  even  his 
nearest  neighbors  to  be  present  at  the  Elmington  musi 
cal  performances.  "  Well,  I  hear  your  grandfather  has 
got  a  new  Dutchman," — that  was  the  way  one  old  gen 
tleman  used  to  speak  of  the  arrival  at  Ehni'ngton  of 
each  successive  find  of  Waldteufel's  in  Baltimore ;  and 


148  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

then  his  sides  would  shake.  Naturally  enough,  my 
grandfather  grew  more  and  more  reticent,  under  the 
circumstances,  as  to  his  musical  doings  and  projects. 

Now,  the  Elmington  mansion  was,  originally,  like 
most  of  the  residences  of  the  Virginia  gentry,  a  rather 
plain  and  ill-planned  structure.  I  dare  say  it  had  never 
occurred  to  the  ancestral  Whacker  who  contrived  it  that 
any  one  of  its  rooms  would  ever  be  acoustically  tested 
by  a  string  quartet.  At  any  rate,  my  grandfather  found 
his  parlor,  with  its  thick  carpet  and  heavy  furniture, 
very  unsatisfactory  as  a  concert-room,  and  resolved  to 
build  a  better.  True,  he  himself  never  uttered  a  word 
to  this  effect.  Like  a  skilful  strategist,  he  kept  his 
front  and  flanks  well  covered  as  he  advanced  upon  his 
objective-point.  He  began  his  forward  movement  with 
some  skill. 

The  Virginians  of  that  day,  as  is  well  known,  with 
a  hospitality  that  defied  all  arithmetic,  used  to  stow 
away  in  their  houses  more  people  in  proportion  to  the 
number  of  the  rooms  than  was  at  all  justifiable, — and 
a  marvellous  good  time  they  all  had  too, — the  necessity 
for  extra  ventilation  being  met  by  the  happy  provision 
of  nature,  that  no  true  Virginian  ever  shuts  a  door. 

I  am  far  from  claiming,  my  dear  boy,  that  these  an 
cestors  of  yours  were  entitled  to  any  credit  for  their 
hospitality.  For,  even  in  our  day  of  Mere  Progress, 
we  have  ascertained  that  this  is  but  a  semibarbarous 
virtue,  while,  in  your  day  of  Perfected  Sweetness  and 
Light,  it  will  be  classed,  doubtless,  among  the  entirely 
savage  vices.  I  am  writing  neither  eulogium  nor 
apology.  I  draw  pictures  merely.  You  and  your  day 
must  draw  the  moral. 

Well,  Field-Marshal  Whacker  began  operations  by 
throwing  out  the  suggestion,  every  now  and  then,  that 
the  Library  would  be  more  comfortable  to  the  young 
men  who  were  sometimes  crowded  into  it,  on  gala  occa 
sions  (what  a  time  they  used  to  have !),  if  the  bookcases 
and  the  great  table  were  removed.  But  where  to  put 
them  ?  He  had  often  been  puzzling  his  head  of  late, 
he  would  say,  trying  to  contrive  some  addition  to  the 
house,  but  it  was  so  built  that  he  did  not  very  well  see 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  149 

how  it  could  be  added  to.  After  much  beating  about 
the  bush,  from  time  to  time,  at  last  the  proposition  for 
a  separate  building  came.  Charley,  very  naturally, 
could  not  see  the  necessity  for  this,  considering  we 
were  but  three;  but,  finding  the  old  gentleman's  heart 
set  on  the  project,  he  ceased  to  raise  objections. 

"  It  would  be  such  a  comfortable  little  nook  to  retire 
to." 

"  Eetire  from  whom,  Uncle  Tom  ?" 

"  Often,  you  know,  our  friends  bring  their  children." 

"  Yery  true." 

"  It  would  be  a  good  place  to  read  or  write  in,  when 
the  house  was  full." 

"  Exactly." 

"Certainly.  And  then,  sometimes,  when  a  lot  of 
you  young  fellows  got  together,  and  wanted  to  have  a 
'  high  old  time,'  you  could  go  out  there,  and  I  could  go 
to  bed  and  let  you  have  it  out.  Don't  you  see  ?" 

"  Capital." 

So  it  was  settled. 

"  But,  Charley,  would  not  a  single  room,  stuck  out 
all  alone  in  the  yard,  have  rather  a  queer  look  ?" 

"  Rather  queer,  I  should  say." 

"While  we  are  about  it,  why  not  put  two  rooms 
under  one  roof?" 

"  Of  course." 

"  Don't  you  think  so  ?  Then  we'll  do  it.  Two  rooms, 
— let  me  see."  And  the  wily  old  captain  seemed  to  re 
flect.  "  As  the  rooms  would  be  of  only  one  story,  the 
pitch  should  be  high, — better  artistic  eifect,  you  know." 

"  Undoubtedly,"  acquiesced  Charley.  And  the  crafty 
engineer  meditated  as  to  how  to  run  his  next  and  last 
parallel. 

"  But  what  kind  of  a  room  shall  the  second  be  ?  The 
first  will  be  our  Library,  and,  in  case  of  a  pinch,  an 
extra  guest-chamber,  of  course.  But  what  are  we  to 
do  with  the  second  room  ?  There's  the  rub." 

"  That's  a  fact,"  granted  Charley  between  puffs ;  and 
the  twain  were  silent  for  a  little  while. 

"By  Jove,  I  have  it!"  exclaimed  my  grandfather, 
slapping  his  thigh. 

13* 


150  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

Charley  looked  up. 

"  We'll  make  a  ball-room  of  it." 

"A  ball-room!  Good  Lord,  Uncle  Tom!"  cried 
Charley,  surprised,  for  a  moment,  out  of  his  habitual 
calm. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Mr.  Whacker,  appealing  with 
his  eyes  from  Charley  to  me,  and  from  me  to  Charley. 
"  Why  not  a  ball-room  ?  Eemember  how  many  young 
people  we  frequently  have  here,  especially  Christmas 
time, — and  you  know  they  always  dance." 

"  I  had  forgotten  that." 

"  As  it  is,  they  must  dance  on  a  carpet,  or  else  it  must 
be  taken  up,  and  that  is  a  great  bother ;  whereas,  with 
a  nicely  waxed  floor!  And  then,"  added  my  grand 
father,  casually, — running  over  the  words  as  if  of  minor 
importance  ('twas  a  regular  masked  battery), — "and 
then  the  fiddles  would  sound  so  much  better  in  such 
a  room." 

"  Oho  1"  cried  Charley. 

"What?"  quickly  put  in  Mr.  Whacker,  slightly 
coloring. 

"  The  boys  and  girls  would  enjoy  it,"  replied  Charley, 
demurely. 

"Enjoy  it?  I  should  think  so!"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Whacker,  relieved  to  feel  that  he  had  not  uncovered 
his  artillery. 

And  so  my  grandfather  set  about  gathering  suitable 
lumber  for  his  "  Library,"  as  he  called  it ;  but  it  was 
nearly  two  years  before  the  structure  was  complete ; 
BO  many  trees  did  he  find  unsuitable,  after  they  were 
felled,  and  so  carefully  did  ho  season  the  planks,  before 
they  were  deemed  worthy  of  forming  part  of  this 
sacred  edifice.  Nor,  during  all  this  time,  did  Mr. 
Whacker  ever  once  allude  to  the  "  Ball-Koom"  as  likely 
to  prove  a  suitable  place  for  his  quartet  performances. 
At  last,  in  the  month  of  November,  1858,  just  two 
years  before  the  arrival  of  the  Don  at  Elmington,  the 
"Library"  was  finished,  and  we  three  were  walking 
over  the  glittering  waxed  floor  of  Mr.  Whacker's  so- 
called  Bail-Room,  admiring  its  proportions  and  the  ex- 
quisite  perfection  of  its  joinery. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  151 

"  Well,  boys,  we'll  christen  her  at  Chi-istmas.  We'll 
have  one  of  the  liveliest  dancing-parties  ever  seen 
in  the  county.  Suppose,  Jack,  you  go  over  to  the 
house  and  bring  us  a  fiddle,  and  we  shall  see  how  she 
sounds." 

I  brought  the  fiddle. 

"  Now,  Charley,  toss  us  off  a  reel." 

Charley  dashed  into  a  dancing  tune,  and  played  a 
few  bars. 

"Magnificent!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Whacker,  flushing 
with  intense  delight.  "  Did  you  ever  hear  such  res 
onance  !" 

"  Magnificent !"  we  echoed ;  and  Charley  resumed 
his  playing. 

"Do  you  know?"  began  he,  pausing  and  raising  his 
head  from  the  fiddle, — but  on  he  dashed  again.  "  Do 
you  know,  Uncle  Tom  ?"  he  resumed,  biting  his 
under-lip,  as  he  gave  a  slight  twist  to  a  peg, — "  Do  you 
know,  it  occurs  to  me  that  this  room: — "  the  scamp 
winked  at  me  with  his  off  eye.  "  Listen  !"  And,  placing 
the  violin  under  his  chin,  he  began  to  play  a  movement 
out  of  one  of  Mozart's  quartets.  "How  does  that 
sound?"  he  asked,  looking  up  into  my  grandfather's 
face  with  an  expression  of  innocence  utterly  brazen. 

This  simple  question,  and  the  simplicity  with  which 
it  was  put,  covered  our  unsuspecting  ancestor  with 
confusion,  though  he  himself  could  hardly  have  told 
why.  Before  he  could  recover  himself  sufficiently  to 
reply,  Charley  went  on, — 

"  Do  you  know,  Uncle  Tom,  that  it  occurs  to  me  that 
this  room  is  the  very  place  for  our  quartets?  How 
strange  that  it  should  never  have  occurred  to  us  be 
fore!"  And  turning  to  me,  he  bended  upon  me  that 
stare  of  serene  stolidity  under  which  he  was  wont  to 
mask  his  intense  sense  of  the  humorous.  I  had  no 
such  power  of  looking  solemn  and  burying  a  smile  -deep 
down  in  my  heart,  as  the  pious  ^Eneas  used  to  do  his 
grief,  while  he  was  fooling  Sidonian  Dido,  poor  thing; 
and  so,  as  Charley  and  I  had  had  many  a  quiet  joke 
over  my  grandfather's  transparent  secret,  I  burst  out 
laughing. 


152  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  Why,  don't  you  agree  with  me  ?"  demanded  Charley 
with  austere  composure.  "What  do  you  think,  Uncle 
Tom  ?" 

"  Our  quartets  ?  Well,  now  that  you  suggest  it — 
H'm  1"  And  he  glanced  around  the  room  with  a  critical 
look.  "  We'll  ask  Mr.  Waldteufel  next  Friday.  What 
on  earth  is  that  idiot  giggling  about  ?" 


Flauti. 


Oboi, 


Clarinetti 
in  6. 


Fagotti. 


Corno  I.  u,  II, 

inEs, 


Corno  III, 

inEs, 


Trombo 
inEs. 


Timpani 
in  Es.  B. 


Violino  I. 


Violino  II, 


Viola. 


Violoncello  e 
Gontrabasso. 


SYMPHONY  OF  LIFE. 

MOVEMENT  IL 


SCHERZO. 


CHAPTEE  XXIII. 

IT  was  just  one  week  before  Christmas, — that  of 
1860,  the  last  Christmas  of  the  olden  time, — that  El- 
mington — that  Virginia — forever  and  forever — was  tc 
see — .  But  no  matter;  we  did  not  know  it  then.  The 
guests  from  Eichmond  were  to  arrive  that  evening. 
Everything  was  in  readiness. 

The  hickory  logs,  which  alone  my  grandfather — 
and  his  father  before  him,  for  that  matter — would 
burn  during  the  holidays, — lighting  the  first  noble  pile 
on  Christmas  Eve, — the  hickory  logs  were  banked  up, 
high  and  dry,  in  the  wood-house.  The  stall-fed  ox  nod 
ded  over  his  trough ;  the  broad-backed  Southdowns,  clus 
tered  together  in  a  corner  of  their  shed,  basked  in  the 
sun  and  awaited  a  return  of  appetite ;  a  remnant  of 
sturdy  porkers,  left  over  from  the  November  killing, 
that  blinked  at  you  from  out  their  warm  beds,  and 
grunted  when  requested  to  rise,  suggested  sausage; 
while  over  on  Charley's  farm,  and  under  Aunt  Sucky's 
able  management,  aldermanic  turkeys,  and  sleek,  plump 
pullets,  and  ducks,  quacking  low  from  very  fatness,  and 
geese  that  had  ceased  to  wrangle, — all  thought  them 
selves,  like  man  before  Copernicus,  the  centre  of  the 
universe.  Then,  in  the  little  creek,  too,  which  ebbed 
and  flowed  hard  by,  there  lay  bushels  and  bushels  of 
oysters  freshly  taken  from  The  Eiver  in  front.  These, 
too,  were  ready;  while,  in  the  cellar,  suspended  from 
hooks,  there  dangled,  thanks  to  the  industry  of  Charley 

•  ft. 


154  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

and  the  Don,  daily  swelling  bunches  of  partridges  and 
rabbits,  of  woodcock  and  of  wild  fowl. 

And  can  you  not  detect  the  odor  of  apples  issuing 
even  from  that  locked  door?  There  are  great  piles  of 
them  stowed  away  there ;  and  cider,  I  suspect,  is  not 
lacking.  And  above,  the  storeroom  showed  shelves 
weighed  down,  since  the  arrival  of  the  last  steamer, 
with  such  things  as  Elmington  could  not  supply. 
Boxes  and  bags  and  bundles  gave  forth  the  mellow 
fragrance  of  raisins,  the  cheerful  rattle  of  nuts,  the 
pungent  savor  of  spices, — the  promise  of  all  things  dear 
to  the  heart  of  the  Virginia  housewife.  On  every 
whiff  floated  mince-pie, — mince-pie  embryonic,  uncom- 
pounded ;  with  every  sniff  there  rose,  like  an  exhala 
tion  before  the  imagination,  visions  of  Plum-Pudding — 
of  the  Plum-Pudding  of  Old  England, — twin-sister  of 
Roast  Beef, — and,  with  Koast  Beef,  inseparable  at 
tendant  and  indispensable  bulwark  of  Constitutional 
Liberty. 

It  was  well. 

Nor  in  stuffed  larder  alone  were  discernible  the  signs 
of  the  approaching  festival.  Christmas  was  in  the  very 
air.  Old  Dick's  mien  grew  hourly  more  imposing;  his 
eye,  beneath  which  now  trembled  no  longer  Zip  alone, 
but  Zip  reinforced  by  double  his  own  strength,  hourly 
more  severe.  Aunt  Phoebe,  her  head  gorgeous  in  a 
new  bandanna  (a  present  from  Mrs.  Carter  last  Christ 
mas,  but  which  had  lain  folded  in  her  "  cbist"  for  the 
past  year), — Aunt  Phoebe,  chief  of  the  female  cohort, 
and  champion  pastry-cook  of  the  county,  waddled  from 
room  to  room, — serene,  kindly,  and  puffing, — volumi 
nous  with  her  two  hundred  pounds,  inspecting  the 
work  of  her  subordinates,  and  giving  a  finishing  touch 
here  and  there.  Polly,  the  cook,  and  her  scullion,  alone 
of  the  household,  had  no  leisure  for  putting  on  the 
Christmas  look,  busy  as  they  were  getting  dinner  for 
the  coming  guests;  cooks  being,  in  point  of  fact,  among 
the  few  people,  white  or  black,  that  ever  did  a  full  day's 
work  in  Virginia  in  the  olden  time.  But  we.  have 
changed  all  that, — so  let  it  pass. 

"Dey  comin' !"  eagerly  cried  an  urchin  of  color,  who, 


THE  STORY   OF  DON  MIFF.  155 

with  twenty  companions  of  both  sexes,  had  had  for  the 
past  hour  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  lane-gate. 

The  gate  was  swinging  on  its  hinges. 

With  one  accord  they  all  assumed  the  attitude  of 
runners  awaiting  the  signal  to  start.  With  feet  planted 
firmly, — shall  1  say  widely? — but  no,  they  are  men 
and  brothers  now, — with  eyes  bent  upon  the  gate,  but 
bodies  leaning  towards  the  house,  they  stood  for  a 
moment  expectant. 

The  noses  of  a  pair  of  horses  appeared  between  th« 
gate-posts. 

"  D'yar  dey  come !  D'yar  dey  come !"  they  shouted 
in  chorus;  and,  with  quasi-plantigrade  flap  of  simul 
taneous  feet,  they  bounded  to  the  rear. 

As  when  Zeus,  angry  because  of  the  forgotten  heca 
tomb,  sends  forth,  in  black,  jagged  cloud,  the  glomer- 
ated  hail,  and  lays  low  the  labors  of  the  oxen  and  the 
hopes  of  the  husbandman. 

Or,  just  as  a  herd  of  buffaloes,  sniffing  the  band  of 
Eedmen  from  afar,  scurry  over  the  plain. 

As  though  a  pack  of  village  curs  have  inaugurated 
a  conflict,  at  dead  of  night,  in  peaceful,  moonlit  lane. 
The  combat  deepens  and  stayeth  not.  But  the  Sum 
mer  Boarder,  wild  with  the  irony  of  advertisements, 
discharges  in  their  midst  the  casual  blunderbuss, — rusty, 
ineffectual.  Instantly  hushed  is  the  voice  of  battle; 
but  multitudinous  is  the  rush  of  departing  paws. 

Not  otherwise  scampered  over  the  Elmington  lawn, 
with  nimbly  flapping  feet,  the  children  of  the  blameless 
Ethiopians,  as  Homer  calls  them. 

The  swiftest  (for  the  race  is  not  always  to  the  slow) 
was  first  to  reach  the  front  steps. 

"  Dey  comin',  Uncle  Dick !  D'yar  dey  is  in  de  fur  eend 
o'  de  lane !"  For  that  worthy,  hearing  their  hurrying 
steps,  had  made  his  way  to  the  porch,  followed  by  Zip. 
Zip  started  back  through  the  door  on  hearing  the  tidings. 

"  Whar  you  gwine,  boy?" 

Zip  stood  as  though  frozen. 

"Ain't  you  never  gwine  to  learn  no  sense?  Don't 
you  know  I  is  de  properest  pusson  to  renounce  de  re- 
rival  o'  de  company  ?" 


156  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

Awed  by  this  courtly  phrase,  no  less  than  by  the 
shining  bald  head  and  portly  figure  that  stood  before 
them,  the  black  cohort  slowly  withdrew,  and,  straggling 
back,  resumed  their  position  at  the  lawn-gate  to  await 
the  arrival  of  the  carriages. 

"  I  see  Miss  Fanny"  (Mrs.  Carter).  "  D'yar  she  sets, 
and  Marse  George"  (Mr.  C.),  "  and  two  more  ladies." 

"  I  see  her,  I  see  Marse  George,"  chirped  the  sable 
chorus  in  deferential  undertones. 

"Sarvant,  Miss  Fanny!"  spoke  up  one  older  and 
bolder  than  the  rest.  "  Sarvant,  Miss  Fanny ;  sarvant, 
Marse  George,"  echoed  the  dusky  maniple. 

"How  d'ye  do,  children,  how  d'yo  do!"  responded 
she,  affably  nodding  to  a  familiar  face  here  and  there 
in  the  groups  that  lined  the  road  on  either  sicfo. 

"  Yonder  Marse  Jack  I"  shouted  a  little  fellow,  get 
ting  the  start  of  the  rest,  who  were  grinning  upon  Mrs. 
Carter  as  though  she  were  their  guest.  "Yonder 
Marse  Jack  a-drivin'  de  hind  carriage!" 

Coming  up  between  the  rows,  I  nodded  from  side  to 
side.  The  flash  of  ivories  and  of  smiling  eyes  seemed 
to  illumine  the  twilight.  Perhaps  the  light  was  in  my 
heart — it  used  to  be  so, — but  let  that  pass,  too. 

Greetings  over,  our  party  dispersed  to  dress  for  din 
ner.  The  new  arrivals  were  seven  or  eight  in  number : 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carter  and  their  daughter  Alice, — Alice 
with  the  merry-glancing  hazel  eyes ;  then  Mary  Rolfe, 
demure,  reserved,  full  of  subdued  enthusiasm,  the  an 
tithesis  of  Alice,  but  "  adoring"  her — girls  will  talk  so — 
and  adored  by  her  in  turn  ;  then  the  teller  of  this  tale, 
making  five.  In  addition  there  were  two  or  three 
young  ladies, — all  very  charming, — but  as  they  were 
not  destined  to  play  any  marked  part  in  our  drama, 
why  describe,  or  even  name  them? 

Only  two  of  our  guests  had  ever  before  spent  Christ 
mas  at  Elmington, — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carter.  Mrs.  Carter 
was  a  kind  of  far-off  Virginia  cousin  of  ours,  and  it  was 
an  understood  thing  between  her  and  my  grandfather 
that  she  should  come  down  to  Elmington  every  Christ 
mas  and  matronize  his  household ;  else,  a  houseful  of 
girls,  whom  he  exceedingly  enjoyed  having  around  him, 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  157 

would  have  been  less  attainable.  And"  a  merrier  soul, 
and  one  who  knew  better  how  to  make  young  people 
enjoy  themselves,  could  hardly  have  been  found.  Mr. 
Carter,  an  excellent,  silent,  sober  man  of  business,  could 
rarely  spend  more  than  a  week  with  us;  but  his  jovial 
spouse  never  gave  us  less  than  a  month  of  her  charm 
ing  chaperoning ;  and,  on  one  occasion,  I  remember,  the 
unceasing  entreaties  of  the  young  people  constrained 
her  to  prolong  her  visit  and  theirs,  from  week  to  week, 
till  two  full  months  had  elapsed.  The  net  result,  di 
rect  and  indirect,  of  that  particular  campaign  was  four 
marriages,  if  I  recollect  aright, — so  that  Elmington 
had  an  established  reputation,  among  the  girls,  as  a 
lucky  place ;  of  which  my  grandfather  was  not  a  little 
proud. 

"  Young  ladies,"  said  he,  walking  up  to  Alice  and 
Mary,  and  putting  his  arms  around  their  waists,  as 
they  stood  at  a  window,  after  dinner,  admiring  the 
moonbeams  dancing  on  the  waves, — "young  ladies,  do 
you  know  that  Elmington  is  a  very  dangerous  place  ?" 

"How,  dangerous?"  asked  Mary. 

"  Shipwrecks  ?"  suggested  Alice,  nod  ding  towards  The 
River  with  a  smile. 

"Yes,"  replied  he,  stooping  down  and  kissing  them 
both  with  impartial  cordiality, — "ship  wrecks  of  hearts." 

"  I  have  lost  mine  already,"  said  Alice,  laying  her 
head  on  his  shoulder  and  shutting  her  eyes,  with  a 
languishing  smile  on  her  upturned  face. 

"  Little  hypocrite  I"  said  he,  patting  her  cheek. 

"Only  a  pat  for  such  a  speech  ?" 

"  Well,  there !  So,  Alice,  your  grandmother  con 
sented  to  let  us  have  you  this  Christmas  ?  It  was  but 
right,  now  that  you  are  grown.  And  then  she  lives  in 
such  an  out-of-the-way  neighborhood." 

"Yes,  it  was  very  kind  in  grandmamma  to  let  me 
come  here  instead  of  spending  my  Christmas  with  her. 
She  grows  deafer  every  year,  and  I  think — perhaps — I 
was  going  to  make  such  a  wicked  speech  1"  And  Alice 
dropped  her  eyes. 

"  What  dreadful  thing  were  you  going  to  say  ?" 

"  I  was  thinking  that,  perhaps,  bawling  into  one's 
14 


158  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

grandmother's  ear  was  not  BO  pleasant  a  pastime,  to  a 
girl,  as  having — just  for  a  change  you  know — a  young 
fellow  whispering  in  hers." 

"  Charley,"  asked  Mr.  Whacker,  suddenly,  that  night, 
as  we  sat  before  the  library  fire,  after  the  newly-arrived 
guests  had  retired,  "  do  you  know,  I  can't  understand 
why,  in  speaking  of  the  ladies  you  met  in  Richmond, 
you  never  so  much  as  mentioned  the  name  of  Alice 
Carter?" 

I  tried  to  catch  Charley's  eye,  but  he  durst  not  look 
me  in  the  face.  Seated  as  I  was,  therefore,  rather  be 
hind  my  innocent  relative,  I  clapped  my  hand  upon 
my  mouth,  doubled  myself  up  in  my  chair,  and  went 
through  the  most  violent,  though  silent  contortions  of 
pantomimic  laughter.  Charley  held  his  eye  firmly 
fixed  on  my  grandfather's  face,  and  affected,  though 
with  reddening  face,  not  to  observe  my  by-play. 

"  D-D-D-Didn't  I  ?" 

Any  kind  of  mental  perturbation  always  brought  on 
an  attack  of  stammering  with  Charley. 

"  Why,  no ;  and  yet  I  have  never  seen  a  more  charm 
ing  girl.  She  is  positively  fascinating.  Don't  you  ad 
mit  it,  you  cold-hearted  young  wretch  ?" 

Here,  a  broad  smile  from  the  Don  encouraging  me  to 
further  exertions,  my  chair  tilted,  and  I  recovered  my 
self  with  a  bang. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?"  asked  my  grand 
father,  suddenly  turning. 

Charley  gave  me  a  quick,  imploring  glance,  and  I 
had  pity  on  him.  "Give  it  to  him,  grandfather;  he 
deserves  it,  every  word, — the  woman-hater!" 

"  To  be  sure  he  does.  Why,  were  I  at  his  time  of 
life— hey,  Mr.  Smith  ?" 

That  night,  after  we  had  gone  to  bed,  I  was  just 
dozing  off  into  dreamland.  Charley  gave  me  a  sudden 
dig  in  the  ribs. 

"Wasn't  I  good?"  said  I,  drowsily.  But  the  old 
boy,  turning  his  back  upon  me  and  settling  his  head 
upon  his  pillow,  took  in  a  long  breath  of  air ;  and, 
breathing  it  out  with  a  kind  of  snort,  was  silent. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  159 


CHAPTER  XXIY. 

"  How  well  the  Parson  is  looking,  Mary,"  said  Alice, 
as  she  stood  before  the  glass  that  night,  unpinning  her 
collar. 

Mary,  tired  and  sleepy  as  she  was,  dropped  into  a 
chair  and  shook  with  half-unwilling  laughter. 

"  What  is  the  Little  Thing  laughing  at?" 

"  Alice,  you  are  the  hardest  case  I  ever  knew.  Why 
do  you  persist  in  turning  the  man  into  ridicule?" 

"  Who,  the  Pass'n  ?"  for  thus  she  pronounced  the 
word, — and  her  merry  eyes  twinkled. 

I  doubt  whether  the  reader  can  guess  who  the 
"Pass'n"  is.  I  must  explain,  therefore,  that  when  I 
mentioned  to  the  girls,  in  Richmond,  that  1  had  found 
the  Don  reading  the  New  Testament,  Alice  had  imme 
diately  cried  out  that  now  she  had  it.  "  He  is  a  Meth 
odist  parson  in  disguise."  And  upon  this  theme  she 
had  ever  since  been  playing  inimitably  grotesque  vari 
ations.  Coming  down  on  the  boat,  notably,  she  had 
surpassed  herself;  and  I  hear  our  party  disgraced 
themselves  by  their  hilarity.  "Ladies  and  gentle 
men,"  she  had  cried  out,  when  first  we  had  come  in 
view  of  Elmington, — "  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  she, 
leaning  out  of  the  carriage  window,  and  declaiming 
solemnly  to  the  passengers  in  the  rear  vehicle,  "in 
yonder  mansion  sits  meditating,  at  this  moment,  Pass'n 
Smith,  the  disguised  Methodist  divine.  He  is  the 
Whitefield  of  our  day.  For  generations,  no  exhorter 
of  such  power — especially  with  sentimental  young  girls 
and  lonesome  widows —  Will  some  one  be  so  good  as 
to  administer  restoratives  to  the  Fat  Lady?  She  seems 
on  the  verge  of —  Where  was  I?"  And  so  she  went  on, 
her  young  heart  ceaselessly  bubbling  over  with  fresh 
ness  and  high  spirits. 

"  Ridicule  the  Pass'n !"  said  Alice,  dropping  into  her 
friend's  lap.  "Far  from  me  the  profane  idea."  And  she 
smoothed  back  from  Moby's  brow  her  loosened  hair. 


160  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  In  the  first  place,  Alice,  it  is  perfectly  absurd  for 
you  to  say  he  is  a  parson  ;  and  even  if  he  were,"  she 
continued,  after  a  sharp  struggle  with  her  rising 
laughter. — "  even  if  he  were  studying  with  a  view  to 
the  ministry,  I  don't  see  that  he  should  be  made  fun 
of  on  that  account.  To  my  mind, — and  you  ought  to 
think  so  too,  Alice, — to  my  mind  there  is  no  nobler 
spectacle  than  that  of  a  young  man  deliberately  turn 
ing  his  back  upon  all  the  allurements  that  lead  astray 
so  many  of  his  comrades,  and  devoting  himself,  in  the 
very  vigor  of  his  manhood  and  in  all  the  glory  of  his 
youthful  strength,  to  the  service  of  his  God.  But  as 
for  the  Don, — Mr.  Smith  I  mean, — I  think  he  is  about 
as  far  from  being  a  parson  as  he  well  could  be.  Don't 
you  remember  how,  when  I  first  met  him,  I  said  I  was 
afraid  of  him  ?  Well,  that  feeling  grows  on  me.  He 
may  have  his  passions  well  under  control,  but,  you  may 
depend  upon  it,  they  would  be  terrible  if  ever  they  got 
the  mastery  over  him.  Did  you  ever  notice  his  teeth, 
how  strong  and  even  they  are,  and  as  white  as  ivory? 
but  do  you  know  that,  at  times,  when  be  smiles  in  that 
peculiar  way  of  his,  they  seem  to  me  to  glitter  through 
his  moustache  like — like — " 

"Is  the  Little  Thing  afraid  the  Pass'n  will  bite  her? 
Twould  be  a  wicked  shepherd  to  bite  a  little  lamb. 
And  if  he  ever  does  such  a  thing,"  she  continued,  "you 
go  straight  and  tell  your  mamma."  And  she  dropped 
her  head  on  Mary's  shoulder  and  stuck  out  her  mouth 
like  a  three-year-old  child. 

"  Incorrigible  scamp !"  cried  Mary,  between  laughter- 
kisses  that,  like  bubbles,  exploded  as  they  touched 
those  pouting  lips.  "  But,  Alice,  will  you  never  be 
serious  ?" 

"  Serious  ?"  replied  Alice,  rising.  "  I  was  never  more 
serious  in  my  life.  It  wouldn't  be  right." 

"  What  wouldn't  be  right  ?" 

"For  you  to  let  the  Pass'n  bite  you,  without  telling 
your  mother, — and  with  those  glittering  teeth  too! 
Think  of  it  I  Glittering  teeth  and  starry  eyes!  Im 
agine  1  Most  improper,  upon  my  word  !" — and  she  gave 
a  toss  of  her  shapely  little  head.  "  Mary,"  said  Alice, 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  161 

dropping  again,  suddenly,  into  her  laughing  friend's 
lap, — "  Mary,  look  me  in  the  eyes  !" 

From  her  fine  honest  face,  as  well  as  from  her  voice, 
— both  changeful  as  the  dolphin's  hues, — had  vanished 
in  an  instant  all  trace  of  raillery.  Mary  looked  up 
with  a  smile  half  serious,  half  inquiring. 

"Well?" 

"Straight  in  the  eyes!"  repeated  Alice,  lifting  her 
friend's  chin  on  the  tip  of  her  forefinger. 

"  I  am  looking." 

"  Mary,"  began  Alice,  leaning  forward,  and  with  that 
same  forefinger  daintily  depressing  the  tip  of  Mary's 
n  ose,  ' '  are  —  you  —  quite  —  sure — that — you — are — 
not—" 

"Not  what?" 

"  Falling  in  love  with  Mr.  Smith  ?" 

"  Alice,  what  can  have  put  that  idea  into  your  head?" 

"  That  sounds  more  like  a  question  than  an  answer 
to  a  question.  Look  me  in  the  eyes  and  say  no, — if 
you  can." 

"  Well,  no,  then  !" 

"  No  fluttering  here,  when  he  approaches  ?  no  quick 
breathing  when  he  speaks  to  you  ?  no  pit-a-pat  ?" 

"  No  pit-a-pat, — no  anything !     Will  that  do  ?" 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it  will  have  to  do,— at  least  for  the 
present." 

"  How  '  for  the  present'  ?" 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Alice,  rising ;  "  and  now  for 
another  question.  Is  the  Don,  so  far  as  you  can  see, 
falling  in  love  with  you  ?" 

"  With  me  ?"  cried  Mary,  with  genuine  surprise. 
"What,  pray,  will  you  ask  next?  Whether,  for  ex 
ample,  I  do  not  perceive  that  Mr.  Frobisher  is  enam 
oured  of  me  ?  No,  you  will  not  ask  that.  Dear  Charles, 
— well,  he  is  a  nice  fellow,  I  must  admit, — and  would 
let  you  do  all  the  talking."  And  she  gave  Alice  a 
squeeze,  as  girls  will  do,  when  talking  sweethearts 
among  themselves. 

"  Mr.  Frobisher !  Why  are  you  continually  harping 
on  him  ?  He  has  never  said  a  dozen  words  to  me.  But 
mark  my  words,  that  Enigma  is  interested  in  you.  He 
I  14* 


162  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

showed  it  to-day  at  dinner.  You  know,  my  dear,  when 
the  humor  strikes  you,  you  talk  beautifully — " 

"  I  don't  compare  with  you,  Alice." 

"Never  mind  about  me.  This  meeting  has  not  been 
called  with  a  view  to  organizing  a  Mutual-Admiration 
Society.  You  are  the  subject  of  this  little  pow-wow. 
Now,  to-day,  at  dinner — well,  I  don't  like  to  sit  here 
and  flatter  you  to  your  face,  but  I  saw  very  plainly 
that  the  Eeverend  Mr. — I  beg  your  pardon,  the  Don, 
was  enraptured  with  your  unconscious  eloquence." 

"Eloquence,  Alice?"  And  Mary  flushed  with  ill-con 
cealed  delight. 

"  Yes,  Little  Dumpling,  eloquence." 

"Eeally?" 

"  That's  the  charm  of  the  thing,  goosey ;  your  words 
flow  from  you  so  easily,  that  you  are  unconscious  how 
lovely  your  language  often  is.  Then,  of  course,  as 
none  of  us  know  the  sound  of  our  own  voices,  you  are 
hardly  aware  how  low  and  musical  your  voice  is." 

"  Alice,"  said  Mary,  gravely,  "  you  are  making  fun 
of  me.  You  have  never  said  anything  like  this  to  me 
before.  It  is  not  kind, — it  really  isn't  1"  And  her  lips 
quivered. 

"  You  little  goose  1  Not  to  know  me  any  better  than 
that!  Well,  to-day  you  became  so  much  interested 
in  some  subject  you  were  discussing  with  Mr.  John 
Whacker  that  you  did  not  observe,  for  some  time,  that 
every  one  at  the  table  was  listening  to  you ;  and  then, 
when  you  discovered  that  you  '  had  the  floor,'  you 
blushed  furiously  and  stopped  talking." 

"Yes,  I  remember;  it  made  me  feel  so  foolish!" 

"  Well,  you  know,  my  love,  I  am  very  proud  of  you  , 
and  so  I  was  looking  around  to  see  what  others  thought 
of  you.  I  give  you  my  word,  I  nearly  exploded  when 
I  caught  sight  of  the  Don.  There  ho  sat,  with  an 
oyster  on  the  end  of  his  fork  poised  midway  between 
his  plate  and  his  mouth,  with  his  eyes  riveted  on  you. 
Put  this  down  in  your  book,  Mary, — this, — as  a  maxim 
on  love :  '  Whenever  a  man  forgets  the  way  to  hid 
mouth  his  heart's  in  danger.' " 

"  I  will,"  said  Mary,  shaking  with  laughter. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  163 

"  Yes,"  continued  Alice,  standing  before  the  glass  and 
taking  down  her  hair,  "you  have  a  streak  of  genius, 
that's  the  truth ;  but  it  is  not  the  whole  truth." 

"  Give  me  the  rest  of  it." 

Alice,  instead  of  replying,  made  a  face  at  herself  in 
the  glass ;  then,  folding  her  arms  across  her  bosom  and 
swaying  from  side  to  side  two  or  three  times,  sailed  off 
in  a  waltz  around  the  room. 

"  The  trouble  with  you,  my  dear,  is  simply  this," — 
and  she  stood  before  her  friend  with  arms  akimbo, — 
"you  are  devoid  of  common  sense."  And  off  she  ca 
pered  again,  this  time  in  the  rhythm  of  the  polka. 
"  Oh,  I'm  so  happy  !"  cried  she,  clasping  her  hands  and 
rolling  up  her  eyes. 

"Because  I  have  no  common  sense?" 

"Because  I  have  so  much!  I've  lots!  Oceans!" 
And  she  spread  out  her  arms.  Catching  sight  of  her 
own  waving  arms  in  the  mirror,  she,  like  the  kaleido 
scope,  changed  in  an  instant.  Standing  on  her  left 
foot,  she  described,  with  the  extended  toe  of  her  right, 
an  elaborate  semicircle,  and  ended  with  a  profound 
courtesy,  her  young  face  corrugated,  meanwhile,  with 
that  professional  grin  of  the  equestrienne,  which,  among 
the  horsical,  passes  for  a  smile.  Turning  then  to  Mary, 
she  repeated  the  movement.  "  Behold,"  cried  she, 
drawing  herself  up  to  her  full  height, — "  behold  the 
Empress  of  the  Arena !  The  Champion  Bare-back 
Eider  of  the  World !" 

"  I  don't  know  so  much  about  the  champion  part  of 
it,  but  of  the  bare  back  there  can  bo  little  doubt." 

"  Well  said,  Little  Dumpling !  I  must  admit  that  my 
costume  is  rather  meagre." 

"  Alice,  you  ought  to  be  able  to  explain  it  if  anybody 
can, — how  do  people  come  to  be  '  privileged  characters,' 
as  they  are  called  ?  You  do  whatever  you  please,  and 
cut  all  sorts  of  crazy  antics,  and  no  one  ever  thinks 
you  foolish,  or  even  undignified ;  and  then,  you  say 
whatever  you  think,  yet  no  one  can  get  angry  with 
you.  You  tell  me,  to  my  face,  that  I  am  destitute  of 
common  sense — " 

"  Totally,  that's  a  fact." 


164  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  And  yet  I  am  not  the  least  bit  vexed  ?" 

"  The  simplest  thing  imaginable.  Listen,  and  I  will 
explain.  As  to  the  crazy  antics,  as  you  are  pleased  to 
term  my  joyous,  lamb-like  friskings,  of  course  you 
cannot  expect  me  to  have  the  face  to  stand  up  here 
and  say  that  they  do  not  offend,  because  of  the  be 
witching,  inborn  grace  which  characterizes  my  every 
movement?" 

"Naturally." 

"  Of  course.  And  you  will  naturally  pardon  my  not 
alluding  to  what  I  can't  help." 

"  Poor  thing  I" 

"  Of  course.  I  was  born  so ;  and  that's  the  end  of 
that.  Now,  as  to  your  not  being  hurt  by  my  telling 
you  that  plain  truth  about  yourself — " 

"  My  destitution  as  regards — " 

"  Common  sense — yes, — I  think  you  yourself  must 
understand  it." 

"  Because  you  told  me,  first,  that  I  had  a  streak  of 
geni  us, — flatterer  ?' ' 

"  Precisely ;  I  credit  you  with  bullion,  and  you  are 
not  worried  that  I  should  deny  you  the  small  change 
of  every-day  life.  You  see  I  am  as  deep  as  Machia- 
velli, — in  other  words,  as  full  of  common  sense  as  an 
egg  is  of  meat.  Lucy  will  not  reach  home,"  said  she, 
abruptly  veering  off  from  the  line  of  their  talk,  as  she 
seated  herself  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  "  till  the  middle 
of  January." 

"  No  ;  I  am  so  sorry.   What  made  you  think  of  her  ?" 

"  Because  I  wish  she  were  here  right  now." 

"  Why,  pray  ?" 

"  Because,  from  what  I  saw  in  Richmond,  the  Dou 
might  devote  himself  to  her  instead  of  you." 

. "  Thank  you  for  wishing  to  rob  me  of  an  admirer, 
as  you  pretend  to  deem  him !" 

"No,  I  am  glad  she  is  not  here.  She  is  so  pure  and 
earnest,  so  single-minded  and  devoted,  that  I  should 
tremble  to  see  her  exposed  to  such  a  danger." 

"  And  I  am  so—" 

"You  are  what  you  are,  my  dear,  and  I  would  not 
have  you  other.  But  there  is  but  one  Lucy  in  the 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  165 

world.  You  know  it  and  I  know  it,  and  neither  of  us 
would  think  of  comparing  ourselves  with  her." 

"  Yes,  Lucy  is  a  real  madonna." 

"  And,  somehow,  I  am  not, — you  may  speak  for  your 
self.  Yes,  I  am  glad  she  is  not  here.  .I'll  tell  you, 
Mary :  I  wish  he  would  fall  in  love  with  me, — I've  got 
so  much  hard  sense  that  I  should  never  think  of  recip 
rocating.  However,"  added  she,  resting  her  head  in 
her  hand,  while  her  elbow  and  fair,  plump  arm  sank  in 
the  pillow,  "  I  am  not  so  sure.  I,  too,  am  human.  Per 
haps  it  would  be  too  much  for  me.  He  is  tall,"  she 
continued,  looking  dreamily  into  space, — "  he  is  distin 
guished-looking  ! — so  brave ! — so  mysterious ! — perhaps 
I  haven't  as  much  sense  as  I  thought," — and  she  seemed 
to  nod, — "  and  his  teeth  are  so  like  stars  !  and  his  rows 
of  eyes  are  so  even  and  white!  glitter  so! — Am  I 
asleep?  Mary,  my  love,"  cried  she,  bouncing  off  the 
bed,  "are  you  going  to  talk  all  night?  Talk  on, — but 
I'll  tell  you  what  I  am  going  to  do.  I  shall  straightway 
put  on  my  little  N.  G., — the  toggery,  to  wit,  of  repose  ; 
and  then  I  shall  fall  on  my  little  knees  and  say  my  little 
prayers ;  which  done,  I  shall  curl  up  my  little  self  in  my 
little  bed,  and  know  no  more  till  the  rising-bell.  One 
word  with  you,  however.  Mary,  do  you  know  what 
all  I  have  been  saying  to  you  means  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  any  of  it  means, — not  one  word ; 
nor  do  you,  I  should  imagine." 

"  Then  listen !  All  that  I  have  said  and  done  and 
danced  to-night  means  this,  and  this  only.  The  Pass'n 
is  going  to  fall  in  love  with  you.  That's  the  Pass'n's 
affair,  and  shows  his  good  taste.  Now,  who  on  earth  is 
the  Pass'n?  Do  you  see  ?  Well,  don't  you  go  and  fall 
in  love  with  him,  now  mind !  don't, — that's  a  good,  wise 
girl.  Good-night !" 


166        THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

I  WILL  not  suppose  that  any  of  my  readers  are 
superficial  persons ;  and  only  superficial  persons  need 
be  told  that  Alice  Carter  was  a  young  woman  of  un 
usually  strong  judgment  and  sound  sense.  And,  fur 
ther :  all  persons  like  her  are  similarly  characterized. 
Doubtless,  a  sense  of  humor  is  not  necessary  to  the 
chemist  or  the  naturalist  or  the  mathematician, — to  one 
pursuing  a  special  branch  of  knowledge;  but  in  that 
science  of  sciences,  the  knowledge  of  men  and  things, 
no  eminence  is  possible  without  it.  'Tis  the  blind  who 
fall  into  pits;  and  the  man  who  cannot  see  the  absurd 
in  others  can  in  nowise  himself  escape  being  ridiculous. 
I  know  of  but  one  bird  with  long  ears ;  and  he  looks 
exceeding  wise  ;  but  let  him  but  venture  forth  from 
the  twilight  of  his  hiding-place  into  the  full  glare  of 
day,  and  the  first  school-boy  that  passes  whistling  by, 
shall  knock  him  on  the  head.  And  so,  among  men,  the 
most  solemn  owl  is  ever  the  most  solemn  ass. 

Yes,  our  little  Alice  of  the  merry-glancing  hazel  eyes 
was  a  wise  virgin  and  of  exceeding  tact ;  but  when  she 
warned  her  friend  against  falling  in  love  with  the  Don, 
she  blundered, — blundered  most  grieviously  when,  she 
planted  in  Mary's  mind  the  idea  that  he  was  not  indif- 
lerent  to  her.  She  loved  Mary  dearly,  with  a  love 
securely  based  on  similarity  of  principles  and  dissimi 
larity  of  temperament,  and  cemented  by  the  closest 
association  from  their  very  infancy.  She  admired  her, 
too, — admired  her  gifts,  the  unusual  range  of  her 
womanly  culture,  her  enthusiasm  for  all  that  was  high 
and  noble,  the  glowing  beauty  of  her  language  when 
she  discoursed  of  anj'thing  that  kindled  her  blood.  At 
such  times  she  would  sit  gazing  upon  Mary's  face, 
illumined  as  it  was  with  a  beautiful  enthusiasm,  and 
feel  that  she  herself  was  almost  despicable.  Yet  a  re 
action  always  came.  Mary  was  not  what  is  called  prac 
tical.  Her  head  was  among  the  stars,  as  it  were,  whilo 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  167 

her  feet  were  stumbling  along  the  earth ;  and  Alice 
revenged  herself  upon  her  goddess,  for  her  enforced 
worship,  by  playing  upon  her  foibles  and  blunders  with 
an  incessant  spray  of  delicate  and  sparkling  raillery. 
Even  the  school-girl  love-affairs  that  they  had  had  when 
about  twelve  or  thirteen  years  of  age  had  been  char 
acteristic  of  the  two  friends.  Mary's  youth  rejoiced  in 
the  aristocratic  name  of  Arthur,  while  Alice's  lad  was 
known  as  plain  Harry.  Arthur  was  curly-haired  and 
pale  of  face,  and  generally  had,  as  he  sauntered  to 
school,  some  novel  or  other  concealed  about  his  pel-son. 
Harry  was  a  brisk,  bullet-headed  chap,  champion 
knucks'  player  of  the  school ;  while,  at  mumble-peg,  his 
stubby,  upturned  nose  allowed  him  to  rise  superior 
even  to  defeat. 

"  I  can't  see,  Alice,  how  you  can  fancy  a  boy  with  a 
pug  nose,"  said  Mary,  one  day* 

"  Harry's  nose  turns  up,  that's  true ;  but  so  did  he, 
yesterday,  and  with  his  umbrella,  which  kept  you  and 
me  dry,  while  he  ran  home  in  the  rain.  Somebody  else 
was  afraid  of  getting  his  curls  wet.  I'll  tell  you  what 
it  is,  Mary,  I  like  a  boy  that  carries  my  books  for  me 
and  gives  me  peaches  and  French  candy  and  oranges 
and  things ;  but  you  want  one  with  a  novelly  name 
and  a  '  chiselled  nose,'  as  you  call  it, — a  pretty  boy,  in 
fact."  All  which  Mary  denied  with  some  heat,  and  they 
had  a  tiff  and  "  didn't  speak"  for  five  long  and  weary 
minutes.  Alice  phrased  the  same  idea  differently  some 
years  later.  .  "  Mary,  I'll  tell  you  the  difference  between 
you  and  myself.  Your  idea  of  a  husband  is  a  man 
whom  you  can  adore ;  mine  must  adore  me." 

Alice_  blundered, — blundered  through  over-zeal  tor 
her  friend's  welfare.  She  knew  Mary's  nature  in  its 
every  recess ;  she  erred  through  not  knowing  human 
nature  as  well.  She  was  only  eighteen ;  hence  her 
knowledge  of  mankind  was  special  rather  than  general. 
She  knew  the  exaltation  of  Mary's  imagination,  and 
felt  the  danger  of  her  fervid  fancy's  laying  hold  of  such 
a  man  as  the  Don,  and  converting  him  into  a  demi-god 
by  the  alchemy  of  her  fresh,  girlish  heart.  But  gener 
alization  is  not  a  trait  of  the  feminine  mind.  When 


168  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

we  hear  that  some  one  admires  us,  we — all  of  us — in 
stinctively  give  that  person  credit  for  good  taste  and 
discernment, — that,  she  of  the  hazel  eyes  overlooked. 
Now,  good  taste  and  discernment  are  admirable  traits  ; 
how,  then,  other  things  being  favorable,  can  we  help 
admiring  our  admirers? 

"Good-night!"  answered  Mary;  and  the  two  fair 
heads  lay  side  by  side,  deep-sunk  in  vast,  beruffled 
pillows.  Alice,  fatigued  by  the  day's  journey,  fell 
asleep  almost  immediately.  Her  companion,  though 
her  eyes  were  closed,  lay  thinking.  Ah,  little  Alice, 
you  have  sadly  blundered!  Mary  is  thinking  of  what 
you  have  said  to  her — ransacking  her  brain  for  confirma 
tion  of  your  suggestion.  "  Yes,  I  did  remark  his  look 
ing  at  me  several  times  at  dinner;  but  what  of  that? 
People  can  look  at  other  people  without  being  in  love 
with  them.  And — yes,  I  did  think  his  eyes  wore  a  very 
intense  look ;  but  then  they  always  glow  like  coals. 
How  beautiful  they  are !"  [Oh,  Alice  1  Alice! !]  "  terribly 
beautiful !  Oh,  if  he  but  hated  you !"  And  she  shivered. 

Lying,  as  she  was,  locked  in  Alice's  arms,  the  ner 
vous,  rippling  movement  of  her  body  slightly  disturbed 
the  latter's  slumbers ;  but  she  merely  drew  a  long  breath 
and  exhaled  it  again  with  force, — taking  a  fresh  hold, 
as  it  were,  on  sleep. 

"Pshaw!  it's  all  nonsense!  Alice  forgets  what  we 
all  agreed  to  in  Richmond.  Lucy  Poythress  was  ob 
viously  his  favorite.  Of  course  she  was.  Everybody 
remarked  it.  I  never  saw  anything  like  the  sudden 
ness  of  the  fancy  he  took  for  her.  Well,  Lucy  will 
reach  the  neighborhood  in  a  few  weeks,  and  then  we 
shall  see.  I  wonder — no,  I  cannot  think  that  of  him. 
'Out  of  sight,  out  of  mind,' — no,  that's  impossible; 
whatever  he  may  be,  he  is  not  fickle.  Let  me  think. 
I  do  recall  that  he  seemed  to  bow  a  shade  lower  to  me 
than  to  the  others  when  we  left  the  parlor ;  but  what 
of  that?  Bows  must  differ  like  everything  else;  one 
must  be  lower  than  the  rest.  And  he  is  so  strong,  I 
suppose  he  hardly  knew  that  he  almost  hurt  my  hand." 
"  Stuff  I"  cried  she  aloud,  with  emphasis;  whirling  out 
of  Alice's  arms  and'  changing  her  position. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  16!) 

Many  men,  in  many  lands,  Poor  Thing,  have  tried 
that  method  of  chan'gingthe  current  of  their  thoughts, 
and  have  failed.  The  chronometer  goes  ticking  on,  lay 
it  how  you  will;  and  so  the  human  heart;  but  that, 
alas,  unlike  the  tireless  watch,  throbs  fiercest  when  'tis 
broken. 

Alice  gave  the  half-conscious  moan  of  disturbed 
sleep ;  and  Mary  resumed  her  meditations,  going,  again 
and  again,  over  the  same  ground.  At  last  youth  and 
fatigue  asserted  their  claims,  and  she  fell  asleep  and 
slept  for  hours ;  then  suddenly  sprang  up  with  a  sharp 
cry. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Alice,  in  terror. 

"  Oh,  I  had  such  a  fearful  dream !" 

"  You  did  ?"  said  Alice,  dropping  back  upon  her  pil 
low.  "  You  frightened  me  so-o-o."  And  she  was  asleep 
again. 

Mary  had  dreamt  that  she  was  walking  alone  on  a 
road  through  a  dark  forest,  when  suddenly  she  heard, 
behind  her,  the  clatter  of  a  horse's  hoofs.  Looking 
around  in  terror,  she  beheld  a  Knight  in  full  armor, 
with  visor  down,  mounted  on  a  powerful  black  charger, 
and  riding  furiously.  The  Knight  seemed  to  be  mak 
ing  full  at  her,  and  she  stood  transfixed  with  fright,  and 
rooted  to  the  ground.  As  be  came  up  to  her,  he  did 
not  slacken  his  speed,  but  bending  to  the  right,  and  en 
circling  her  waist  with  his  mighty  arm,  lifted  her  from 
the  ground,  and,  without  an  effort,  placed  her  before 
him  on  the  charger's  neck.  On,  on,  they  rushed  for 
miles  and  miles ;  but  the  horseman  spake  never  a  word, 
nor,  for  very  terror,  could  she  utter  a  cry.  At  last  they 
emerged  into  a  bright,  moonlit  plain,  and  there,  stand 
ing  before  them,  was  the  figure  of  a  young  girl.  She 
turned  her  head  at  the  sound  of  the  charger's  hoofs, 
and  the  moon,  shining  full  on  her  face,  revealed  the  fea 
tures  of  Lucy.  "Aha!  it  is  she!"  cried  the  Knight, 
breaking  silence  for  the  first  time.  'Twas  the  voice  of 
the  Don  !  And  tossing  his  trembling  captive  disdain 
fully  to  the  ground,  he  stooped  once  more,  and,  seizing 
Lucy,  sped  on  as  before.  Oh,  Alice  !  Alice ! !  Alice ! !  1 

H  15 


170  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

NEXT  morning,  as  the  two  girls  were  tripping  down 
stairs,  Mary  said  to  herself,  "  Now  I  shall  observe  the 
Don  narrowly,  and  see  whether  there  is  anything  in 
what  Alice  says.  Perhaps  there  may  be  some  little 
foundation  for  her  opinion."  Entering  the  breakfast- 
room  in  this  frame  of  mind,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at 
that,  as  she  saluted  one  after  another  of  the  company, 
her  eyes  suddenly  gave  forth  kindlier  beams  as  they 
met  those  of  the  Don.  Very  likely  the  Don  did  not 
make  any  such  comparison.  He  may  not  have  re 
marked  that  the  smile  she  gave  him  was  sweeter  or 
sweetest ;  but  he  felt  that  it  was  sweet. 

There  were  only  two  vacant  seats  at  the  table  when 
the  two  girls  entered.  One,  at  my  grandfather's  right, 
he  had  expressly  reserved  for  Alice,  who  had  entirely 
captivated  him  the  evening  before  by  her  sparkling 
gayety.  The  other  was  next  the  Don's,  and  this  Mary 
took.  That  sweet  smile  merited  response  of  some 
sort,  and  his  attentions  to  his  fair  neighbor  were  as 
siduous  and  delicate.  He  was  always  courteous,  but, 
certainly,  rather  constrained  ;  now,  his  manner  seemed 
to  her  singularly  gentle.  What  was  thawing  him  out? 
Perhaps — well,  at  any  rate — 

"Thank  you,"  cooed  she,  in  that  soft,  high-bred 
tongue  of  Richmond, — "thank  you," — in  requital  for 
hot  waffle,  weaving  wreathed  smile,  entangler  of  the 
hearts  of  men.  Could  he,  the  friendless  one  and  soli 
tary,  could  he  be  unmoved  ?  And  so,  smile  answered 
smile,  and  interest  brought  interest,  making  it  compound ; 

and  every  school-boy  knows  how  fast  that  counts  up. 
********** 

Yes,  it  was  too  much ;  five  or  six  pages  of  Able-Anal 
ysis,  showing  just  what  these  two  young  people  felt, 
and  why  they  felt  it ;  and  so,  I  passed  a  pen  across  the 
whole.  It  makes  the  chapter  shorter ;  but  even  that 
has  its  possible  advantages.  The  fact  is,  I  am  not  quite 


THE  STORY   OF  DON  MIFF.  171 

sure  that  I  know  what  they  did  think  and  feel;  for 
was  not  the  Don  an  Enigma?  and  was  not  Mary  a 
woman  ? 

After  all,  what  is  the  use  of  all  this  microscopic  anat 
omy  in  tracking  the  progress  of  heart-affairs  ?  It  seems 
to  me  that  falling  in  love  is  as  elementary  a  process  as 
sitting  down  on  an  ice-pond.  The  rub  is  how  not  to  do 
it.  If  the  novelists  would  but  tell  us  that!  Fortu 
nately  for  me,  I  am  not  called  on  to  do  this,  as  I  am  not 
a  novelist,  but  a  bushwhackerish  philosopher  instead. 
And  then — have  I  defrauded  you,  fair  reader? — this  is 
not  a  love-story !  When  I  sat  down  to  write  it,  I  re 
solved  to  exclude,  most  rigidly,  from  its  pages,  all  allu 
sion  to  the  tender  passion ;  but,  somehow,  though 
against  my  will,  my  personages  could  not  be  kept  free 
from  its  toils.  My  error  was  in  bringing  them  together 
to  spend  Christmas  in  a  Virginia  country-house.  The 
thing  cannot  be  remedied,  now,  without  an  entire 
change  of  plot ;  so  I  shall  have  to  let  it  go  as  it  is. 
But  the  reader  must  credit  the  whole  of  this  Episode 
of  Love,  which  has  forced  itself  into  a  theme  of  a  dif 
ferent  nature,  to  Alice  Carter.  Without  her  assistance 
I  could  not  have  written  one  word  of  it.  She  and 
Charley,  to  be  entirely  honest,  are  the  real  authors  of 
this  book.  They  have  furnished  most  of  the  facts ;  I 
am  to  pocket  all  the  glory. 

To  show  the  part  Alice  has  had  in  the  matter,  I  will 
mention,  by  way  of  example,  a  conversation  we  had 
years  after  the  occurrences  herein  described, — less,  in 
fact,  than  eighteen  months  ago.  We  were  talking  of 
the  good  old  times, — Consule  Planco, — and  happened  to 
speak  of  this  particular  Christmas  at  Elmington,  and 
especially  of  the  week  that  preceded  Christmas  Eve. 

"  Did  you  know  as  early  as  that,  that  a  love-affair 
was  brewing  between  Mary  and  the  Don  ?" 

"  Of  course ;  at  any  rate,  I  feared  it.  You  know  how 
harum-scarum  I  was  in  those  days  ?" 

"I  do,"  I  replied,  "if  harum-scarum  means  irresisti 
ble." 

.  "  You  resisted  me,  at  any  rate ;  but,  as  I  was  going 
to  remark,  I  had  the  regulation  number  of  eyes  about 


172  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

my  person,  and  couldn't  well  help  seeing  what  lay 
straight  before  me." 

"  /saw  nothing  1" 

"  Ah,  but  you  are  a  man  1  and  remember  that  there 
are  none  so  blind  as  those  who  can't  see!" 

"Then  you  think  the  affair  was  well  under  weigh 
before  the  end  of  the  first  week  ?" 

"  With  the  Don,  yes ;  and  Mary  was  far  more  inter 
ested  than  she  would  allow  herself  to  believe." 

"  Do  you  suppose  that  she  was  aware  of  the  critical 
state  of  the  Don's  affections?" 

"  Of  course  she  was ;  don't  you  know  that  a  woman 
always  perceives  that  a  man  is  falling  in  love  with  her 
long  before  he  finds  it  out  himself?" 

"Not  to  add,"  I  rejoined,  "that  she  often  perceives  it 
when  the  man  never  does  find  it  out  himself.  By  th» 
way,  why  do  women  always  express  surprise  at  a  pro 
posal,  a's  I  am  told  they  invariably  do  ?" 

"Oh,  that  is  to  gain  time;  but  rest  assured,  the  sur 
prise  is  about  as  real  as  that  felt  by  a  spider  when  a 
fly,  after  buzzing  about  her  web  for  a  time,  and  lightly 

grazing  first  one  thread  and  then  another,  at  last  puts 
imself  in  a  position  where  he  may  be  made  available." 

"Poor  fly!" 

Upon  the  authority,  then,  of  Alice,  who  holds  the 
position  of  Editor-in-chief  of  the  Love-department  of  this 
work,  I  may  assure  the  reader  that  by  the  time  that 
one  week  had  passed  over  the  heads  of  our  party  at 
Elmington  this  was  the  state  of  things : 

Mary  was  sure  that  the  Don  loved  her,  and  believed 
that  she  was  fancy-free.  The  Don  was  aware,  no 
doubt,  of  the  state  of  his  own  affections,  and  was,  we 
will  suppose, — for  there  is  no  way  of  knowing, — in  per 
plexing  doubt  as  to  the  condition  of  Mary's.  Alice 
knew  more  than  either  of  them ;  while  upon  me,  the 
teller  of  this  tale,  their  various  nods  and  becks  and 
wreathed  smiles  had  been  entirely  lost. 

I  knew  no  more  of  what  was  going  forward  than 
Zip  did  of  the  amours  of  Uncle  Toby  and  the  Widow 
W  adman. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  173 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

CHRISTMAS  EVE  had  come,  and,  as  usual,  the  holidays 
had  been  officially  ushered  in  by  a  noble  fire  of  hickory 
logs.  A  deep  mass  of  ruddy  coals  was  glowing  upon 
the  vast  hearth  of  the  Hall.  Upon  these  had  been  cast 
a  hamper  of  chosen  oysters.  The  guests  (it  was  the 
way  at  Elmington)  were  expected  to  rake  them  out, 
every  man  for  himself  and  sweetheart,  which  gave  a 
delightful  informality  to  the  proceedings.  As  soon  as 
the  roasting  was  well  under  weigh,  two  enormous,  an 
cestral  bowls,  one  of  eggnog,  the  other  of  apple-toddy, 
were  brought  in.  Later,  there  was  to  be  dancing.  A 
dozen  or  so  of  our  neighbors  and  friends  were  in  the 
habit  of  dropping  in  on  us,  on  these  occasions,  to  help 
us  make  merry. 

"  And  now,  grandfather,"  said  I,  "  it  is  time  to  bring 
out  the  old  Guarnerius." 

"The  old  what?"  asked  the  Don,  quickly. 

"  His  old  Guarnerius  violin ;  Guarnerius  was  a  cele 
brated  maker  of  violins,"  I  explained. 

"What  was  the  matter  with  Charley  ?  Why  did  he 
purse  up  his  mouth  and  give  that  inaudible  whistle  ? 

"  Ah, — and  Mr.  Whacker  has  one  of  these  old  instru 
ments  ?" 

"Yes;  and  he  is  as  tender  with  it  as  a  mother  with 
her  first-born.  He  allows  it  to  be  brought  out  only 
during  the  Christmas  holidays;  though  he  used  to  let 
Monsieur  Yillemain  play  on  it.  The  genuine  ones  are 
very  rare  and  dear,"  I  added. 

Another  silent  whe-e-ew  from  Charley. 

"  Oh,  I  should  suppose  so,"  replied  the  Don. 

"  What  did  you  say  your  Guarnerius  cost  you,  grand 
father?" 

That  was  a  question  I  asked  every  Christmas  Eve, 
when  the  violin  was  brought  out ;  and  always  with  the 
same  result. 

15* 


174  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  That"  replied  the  old  gentleman,  smiling  and  ad 
dressing  the  Don,  "is  a  piece  of  information  I  have 
never  given  to  my  friends.  You  see,  when  I  was  a 
young  man — "• 

We  all  knew  what  was  coming, — the  story  that  my 
grandfather  always  told  to  strangers  when  his  Guarne- 
rius  was  brought  out  for  inspection.  It  was  rather  a 
long  story, — how  he  took  lessons  from  a  very  promising 
young  artist,  who  took  to  gambling  and  drinking,  and 
had,  therefore,  to  sell  his  beloved  violin  to  his  pupil, — 
and  how  the  young  man  grieved  at  giving  it  up,  etc., 
etc.,  etc. 

"  So  saying,"  concluded  Mr.  "Whacker,  "  he  wrung 
my  hand  and  hurried  out  of  the  room." 

"  OUCH !"  cried  Charley,  letting  fall  upon  the  hearth, 
at  the  same  time,  a  large  oyster  and  the  knife  with 
which  he  was  opening  it. 

If  there  runs  upon  the  people's  highway  a  hopelessly 
slow  coach,  it  is  your  writer  of  English  grammars. 
When  will  they  deem  this  interjection  respectable 
enough  to  introduce  into  their  works?  If  never,  how 
is  the  boy  of  the  future  to  parse  my  works  ?  Surely, 
it  is  worth  any  half-dozen  of  their  genteel  alases,  or 
their  erudite  alackadays  1  Look  at  it !  Ouch !  How 
much  body  I  What  an  expressive  countenance  !  What 
character  in  its  features !  Hebrew  verbs  have  genders ; 
and  don't  you  see  that  ouch  is  masculine  ?  What  lady 
would  use  it?  Nay,  it  is  more  than  masculine, — it  is 
manly ! 

See  those  two  boys, — the  one  with  a  strong  pin  fixed 
In  the  toe  of  his  shoe, — the  other  absorbed  in  his  les 
son,  and  sitting  in  an  unguarded  attitude.  Up  goes  the 
foot! 

"Ouch!" 

The  word  is  more  than  manly, — it  is  stoical.  Stoical, 
did  I  say  ?  'Tis  heroic  I 

,  For  does  not  the  lad  say  in  that  one  breath,  with 
I  Byron's  dying  gladiator,  that  he  consents  to  start,  but 
conquers  agony  ?  He  means,  as  clearly  as  though  he 
had  used  the  whole  dictionary,  "  I  am  no  girl.  I 
didn't  scream.  It  didn't  hurt,  neither.  I  just  wanted 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  175 

to  have  you  understand  that  I  knew  you  were  fooling 
with  the  seat  of  my  trousers." 

All  this  those  four  letters  mean  ;  and  yet  this  is  their 
first  appearance  in  any  serious  literary  work  1 

To  this  masterly  interjection  did  Mr.  Charles  Fro- 
bisher  give  vent ;  and  he  meant,  of  course,  "  I  have 
cut  my  finger  with  this  confounded  knife,  opening  this 
confounded  oyster ;  but  don't  disturb  yourselves,  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  'tis  a  small  affair."  Accordingly  he 
rose,  left  the  room,  and  soon  returned  with  his  finger 
bandaged. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry !"  said  Alice. 

"  Badly  cut  ?"  inquired  my  grandfather. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  said  Charley. 

"But  how  annoying,"  added  the  old  gentleman. 
"  Your  left  hand,  too  !  So  that  you  will  not  be  able  to 
play  for  the  dancers  this  evening." 

Charley  looked  at  the  bandaged  finger  with  a 
thoughtful  air,  and  shook  his  head. 

Charley,  with  all  his  supposed  aversion  to  the  fair 
sex,  was  ready,  at  any  time,  to  play  all  night  to  the 
dancing  of  a  party  of  girls,  and  the  young  people  were 
much  chagrined  at  the  accident  to  his  finger.  True, 
Herr  Waldteufel  had  oifered  his  services  at  the  piano ; 
but  they  wanted  a  fiddler  on  Christmas  Eve ;  and  the 
question  was  raised  whether  one  could  not  be  found 
among  the  negroes.  But  it  turned  out  that  a  "  revival" 
had  recently  swept  over  the  county,  and  both  my 
grandfather's  fiddlers  had  "  got  religion."  One  of  them 
had,  in  fact,  already  begun  to  preach ;  and,  in  his  first 
sermon,  had  taken  high  conservative  ground  as  to  the 
future  state  of  such  as  drew  the  bow  and  repented  not. 
So,  as  the  tyro  to  whom  the  new  parson  had  sold  his 
instrument  was  not  yet  up  to  the  mark,  it  seemed 
certain  that  we  would  have  to  trip  it  to  the  less  in 
spiring  strains  of  the  piano. 

"  I  vill  blay  for  de  yoong  beebles  till  daylight  doaf 
abbear,"  quoth  the  Herr,  who  was  very  near  the  mam 
moth  bowl  of  apple-toddy. 

But  just  as  this  thorough-going  proposal  fell  from  the 
Professor's  well-moistened  lips,  there  was  heard  the 


176  THE  STORY   OF  DON  MWF. 

clattering  of  hoofs  on  the  frozen  ground.  There  was  a 
stir  among  the  darkies,  around  and  in  the  door- way, 
and  on  the  steps  of  the  Hall ;  for,  as  was  the  custom  in 
the  olden  days,  whenever  there  was  any  conviviality 
going  forward  in  the  "  Great-House,"  the  negroes  had 
crowded  about  all  the  doors  and  windows  whence  a 
glimpse  of  the  festivities  was  to  be  had  ;  for  they  knew 
very  well  there  was  "  mo'  toddy  in  dat  d'yar  big  bowl 
dan  de  white  folks  gwine  'stroy,  let  alone  de  eggnog." 

I  hasten  to  remark  that  this  mysterious  cavalier,  so 
darkly  galloping  through  night  and  frost,  was  none 
other  than  Mr.  William  Jones, — Billy  for  short, — the 
young  fellow  of  whom  we  have  heard  before,  and  who 
was,  at  this  time,  a  student  at  the  University.  A  dozen 
sable  youngsters  seized  his  reins,  ambitious  of  the  honor 
of  riding  his  horse  to  the  stable ;  and  as  he  dismounted 
and  approached  the  densely-packed  steps,  he  was  as 
sailed  by  a  chorus  of  joyous,  friendly  voices. 

"Dat  you,  Marse  Billy?  Lord  'a'  mussy,  how  de 
chile  done  growed,  to-be-shol  Jess  like  he  pa,  too!" 

The  light  was  streaming  upon  his  cheery,  manly 
face.  "  Why,  how  do  you  do,  Aunt  Polly  ?" 

"  I  'clare  'fo'  Gaud  de  chile  know  me,  and  in  de  dark, 
too  I"  And  Aunt  Polly  doubled  herself  up  and  chuckled 
blissfully. 

"  Know  you !  why,  it  was  only  last  October  that  I 
went  off  to  the  University !" 

"  Dat  so,  Marse  Billy.  How  we  old  people  does  for- 
git,  to-be-sho  1" 

I  may  remark,  here,  that  before  the  late  war  it  was 
very  gratifying  to  a  middle-aged  negro  to  be  thought 
old.  There  was  on  every  farm  a  considerable  propor 
tion  of  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  color  who  had 
voted  themselves  too  old  or  too  infirm  to  labor.  Their 
diseases, — they  were  all  diseased, — while  masking  their 
malignity  behind  such  empirical  euphemisms  as  rheu- 
matiz  or  misery  in  de  chist,  baffled  all  diagnosis,  and 
were  invariably  incurable ;  for  who  can  minister  to  a 
mind  diseased  with  that  most  obstinate  of  ailments,  an 
aversion,  to  wit,  to  putting  in  movement  the  musclen 
of  one's  own  body  ?  There  was,  so  to  speak,  an  Hopital 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  177 

des  Invalides  on  every  farm  ;  and  on  my  grandfather's 
the  emeriti  and  emeritce  were  in  strong  force. 

And  truly  it  was  a  pleasant  sight,  provided  you  were 
not  a  political  economist  or  a  philanthropist,  to  walk 
among  the  cabins,  on  a  bright  autumn  afternoon,  and 
see  the  good  souls  sitting,  sunning  themselves,  and  bear 
the  serene  murmur  of  their  prattle,  broken,  ever  and 
anon,  by  some  mellow  burst  of  careless  laughter. 

It  was  tranquillity  such  as  this,  I  fancy,  that  Homer 
must  have  observed  in  the  old  men  of  his  day.  Don't 
you  remember  when  there  was  a  truce,  and  Priam  was 
standing  upon  the  battlements, — what  book  was  it? — 
but  no  matter, — and  he  sent  for  Helen  to  come  and 
point  out  to  him  the  various  Greek  heroes  who  stood 
beneath  the  walls ;  and  how  she  had  to  pass  by  a  knot 
of  ancient  men,  and  how  she  amazed  them  by  her 
beauty  ?  The  days  of  toil  and  sweat  and  wounds,  for 
them,  at  least,  were  past ;  and  they,  too,  had  come  to 
catch,  from  the  turrets,  a  glimpse  of  wide-ruling  Aga 
memnon  and  Ulysses  of  many  wiles ;  of  the  brawn  of 
Ajax ;  and  of  Diomede,  equal  to  the  immortal  gods. 
And  there  they  sat,  hobnobbing  and  a-twittering — so 
the  master  says — low  and  sweet  as  so  many  cicadas — 
let  us  say  katydids — from  greenwood  tree. 

"No  wonder,"  they  chirped,  "the  Greeks  and  Tro 
jans"  (they  were  no  longer  either  Greeks  or  Trojans, — • 
they  were  aged  men,  merely)  "  have  ceaselessly  con 
tended,  for  now  nearly  ten  years,  about  her, — for  she  is 
divinely  beautiful !" 

I  think  it  must  have  been  my  childhood's  experi 
ences  of  plantation  life  that  caused  me  to  be  so  pro 
foundly  touched  by  this  masterly  passage ;  for  hardly 
elsewhei-e,  in  this  grimly  struggling  world  of  ours, 
could  just  such  scenes  have  been  witnessed.  Just 
think  of  it,  for  a  moment!  Here,  throughout  Vir 
ginia,  there  were,  in  those  days,  on  every  farm,  three 
or  four,  or  a  dozen,  or  a  score  of  servants,  who  had 
rested  from  their  labors  at  an  age  when  one  may  say 
the  struggle  glows  fiercest  with  the  European  races. 
A  roof  was  over  their  heads,  a  bright  fire  crackled  on 
their  hearths.  Their  food,  if  plain,  was  abundant.  And 


178  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

there  was  not  a  possibility  that  these  things  should  ever 
fail  them.  No  wonder  they  used  to  rival  the  aapzaros 
fl\u>s  that  burst  from  the  ever-serene  gods,  when  lame 
Yulcan,  with  his  ungainly  hobble,  went  to  and  fro  among 
them,  officiously  passing  the  nectar. 

That  sonorous  mellowness  of  unalloyed  laughter  we 
shall  never  hear  again.     But  never  mind, — let  it  pass ! 


CHAPTEK  XXYIII. 

YES,  let  it  pass.  There  was  music  in  that  laughter, 
doubtless,  but  it  cost  us  too  dear.  I  think  we  Yirgin- 
ians*  are  agreed  as  to  that, — more  than  agreed, — yet  we 
cannot  bring  ourselves  to  look  as  others  do,  upon  the 
state  of  things  which  rendered  it  possible.  As  one 
man,  we  rejoice  that  slavery  is  dead ;  but  even  the 
victors  in  the  late  struggle — the  magnanimous  among 
them,  at  least — will  hardly  find  fault  with  us  if  we 
drop  a  sentimental  tear,  as  it  were,  upon  its  tomb.  A 
reasonable  man  is  glad  that  an  aching  tooth  is  well  out 
of  his  mouth  ;  but  to  the  autocratic  dentist  who  should 
pull  it  out  by  force,  his  gratitude  would  not  be  boister 
ous;  and  then,  after  all,  it  leaves  a  void.  But  cheer 
up,  brother  Yirginians,  listen  to  your  Bushwhackerinh 
bard  while  he  chaunts  you  a  lay.  He  would  have  his 
say;  but  he  will  be  good  and  kind.  He  would  not 
willingly  bore  you;  and  hence,  ever  thoughtful  and 
considerate,  he  serves  up  his  rhetoric  in  a  separate 
course.  Skip  this  chapter,  then,  if  you  will.  You  will 
find  the  story  continued  in  the  next. 

Yes,  it  is  all  true  enough,  I  admit.  It  was  but  the 
other  day,  so  to  speak,  that  the  first  shipload  of  negroes 
was  landed  on  the  shores  of  a  continent  peopled  by  a 
race  which,  after  all  has  been  said,  remain  the  most  in 
teresting  of  savages,  and  who,  if  not  heroes,  have  easily 

*  Obviously,  as  often  elsewhere,  Mr.  Whacker  here  says  Virginians,  in 
stead  of  ^outhemeri,  to  avoid  all  semblance  of  sectional  feeling. 


THE  STORY   OF  DON  MIFF.  179 

become  heroic  under  the  magicians'  wands  of  Cooper 
and  of  Longfellow.  That  shipload  and  its  successors 
have  become  millions ;  while  the  genius  of  a  Barnum 
scarce  suffices  to  bring  together  enough  Eedskins  to 
make  a  Knickerbocker  holiday.  The  descendant  of 
the  naked  black,  whose  tribe,  on  the  Gold  Coast,  still 
trembles  before  a  Fetish,  rustles,  beneath  fretted  ceil 
ings,  in  the  robes  of  a  bishop;  while  some  chief  of  the 
kindred,  perhaps,  of  Tecumseh,  shivers  on  the  wind 
swept  plains,  under  the  fluttering  rags  of  a  contract 
blanket.  His  half-naked  squaw  hugs  her  pappoose  to 
her  bosom,  and  flees  before  the  sabres  of  our  cavalry ; 
but  her  more  deeply -tinted  sister  struts,  beflounced,  the 
spouse  of  a  senator.  In  one  word,  the  race  which  the 
Anglo-Saxons  found  on  this  continent  remained  free, 
and  perished ;  the  people  they  imported  and  enslaved, 
multiplied  and  flourished.  I  do  not  feel  myself  the 
CEdipus  to  solve  this  riddle  of  modern  morals;  but, 
with  my  people,  I  fail  to  see  the  consistency  of  Victor 
Hugo*  for  example,  who  could  whine  over  the  fate  of 
John  Brown, — hanged  for  an  attempt  to  achieve  the 
liberty  of  the  negro  through  murder, — but  who,  when 
Captain  Jack  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  gallows,  made  no 
sign.  Captain  Jack,  he  too,  through  murder,  sought 
to  maintain  his  ancestral' right  to  independence — nay, 
existence — and  a  few  acres  of  wretched  lava-beds. 
The  distempered  fancy  of  the  first  saw,  as  he  gazed 
upon  the  corpses  of  the  fellow-citizens  of  Washington, 
of  Jefferson,  and  of  Henry,  countless  dusky  legions 
rushing  to  his  rescue, — the  clear  eye  of  the  other  showed 
him  forty  millions  pouring  down  upon  his  less  than  a 
hundred  braves,  to  avenge  the  death  of  Canby  ;  and  yet 
he  slew  him.  John  Brown  is  a  hero,  his  name  is  a 
legend,  his  tomb  a  shrine  ;  but  where  are  thy  wretched 
bones  slung  away,  poor  Jack  ?  Hadst  thou  been  fair, 
and  dwelt  in  Lacedsemon,  in  Xerxes'  days,  the  name 
of  Leonidas  shone  not  now  in  solitary  glory  adown 
the  ages ;  wert  thou  living  now,  and  of  sable  hue,  thou 
mightest  be  sitting  at  the  desk  of  Calhoun.  AlasJ 

*  Written,  doubtless,  before  the  death  of  "  The  Master." — Ed. 


180  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

alas !  that  thou  shouldst  have  been  of  neutral  shade ; 
for  how  couldst  thou  be  a  man  and  a  brother,  being 
only  copper-colored  ? 

But  leaving  these  knotty  points  of  ethical  casuistry 
to  the  philanthropists,  I  reiterate  that  I  think  that  the 
picture  I  have  drawn  of  certain  aspects  of  slavery,  as  it 
existed  in  Virginia,  reveals  its  fatal  weakness.  That 
weakness  consisted  in  the  fact  that  it  realized  the  ideal 
set  forth  in  Victor  Hugo's  "Les  Miserables."  That 
eloquent  work  of  the  erratic  French  dreamer  is  one 
long  and  passionate  protest  against  the  sorrows  and 
sufferings  of  the  poor.  In  those  sorrows  and  sufferings 
he  finds  the  source  of  all  the  crimes  that  dishonor 
humanity.  Now,  as  things  existed  with  us,  poverty 
sufficiently  grinding  to  produce  crime  was  actually  un 
known  ;  so  that  our  little  world  was  just  the  world 
that  he  sighs  for. 

Victor  Hugo  plumes  himself,  I  believe,  upon  never 
having  learned  the  gibberish  that  the  English  call 
their  language.  Therefore,  as  I  do  not  design  having 
this  work  translated  into  the  various  modern  lan 
guages  (why  should  I,  forsooth,  since  by  the  time 
your  day  rolls  round  the  aforesaid  gibberish  will  be 
the  only  tongue  spoken  by  mankind?)  he  will  never 
have  the  pain  of  seeing  himself  ranked  among  the  up 
holders  of  slavery.  Whatever  he  might  say,  however, 
it  is  very  clear  that  no  state  of  things  heretofore  ex 
isting  has  so  well  fulfilled  the  conditions  of  his  ideal  of 
society.  It  is  no  fault  of  mine  if  his  ideal  be  absurd.* 

*  In  my  capacity  of  Bushwhacker,  I  make  it  a  matter  of  business  to 
laugh  whenever  I  feel  like  it.  I  felt  like  it  when,  on  reading  the  above, 
this  parallelism  occurred  to  me:  the  hero  of  the  "Miserables" — Jean 
Valjean — is  a  thief.  Now,  holds  our  author,  whenever  a  man  is  so  un 
fortunate  as  to  be  a  thief,  no  blame  should  be  attached  to  him, — and  he 
puts  it  about  thus :  "  A  thief  is  not  a  thief.  Nor  a  crime.  He  is  a 
product.  A  fact.  A  titanic  fact.  A  thief  is  a  man  who  hears  the  cry 
of  a  child.  It  is  his  child.  It  is  a  cry  for  bread.  Society  gives  him  a 
stone.  Effacement  of  his  rectitude.  He  appropriates  society's  wallet. 
And  serves  society  right;  for  'tis  society  has  made  him  a  thief." 

Leaving  to  some  coming  man  the  task  and  the  credit  of  removing  from 
society  all  stain,  by  discovering  who  or  what  made  society  a  thief-maker, 
'tia  this  that  moved  my  Bushwhackerish  soul  to  smile:  this  Jenn  Val 
jean,  whom  society  is  so  wicked  in  producing,  turns  out  to  be  a  better 
man  than  any  other  man- ever  was,  is,  or  shall  be.     So  we,  under  ouf 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  181 

For  I  fear  me  much  this  is  no  ideal  world  we  live  in. 

But  ah,  what  a  lotus-dream  we  were  a-dreaming, 
when  from  out  our  blue  sky  the  bolt  of  war  fell  upon 
us!  We  lived  in  a  land  in  which  no  one  was  hungry, 
none  naked,  none  a- cold ;  where  no  man  begged,  and 
no  man  was  a  criminal,  no  woman  fell — from  necessity; 
where  no  one  asked  for  bread,  and  all,  even  the  slaves, 
could  give  it ;  where  Charity  was  unknown,  and  in  her 
stead  stood  Hospitality,  with  open  doors.  What  tidings 
we  had,  meanwhile,  of  the  things  of  the  outer  world, 
made  us  cherish  all  the  more  fondly  the  quietude  of  our 
Sleepy  Hollow.  The  nations,  had  they  not  filled  the 
air  for  a  century  past  with  the  murmur  of  their  unrest? 
Revolutions,  rebellions,  barricades^  bread-riots, — agra- 
rianism,  communism,  the  frowning  hosts  of  capital  and 
labor — the  rumor  of  these  grisly  facts  and  grislier  phan 
toms  reached  us,  but  from  afar,  and  as  an  echo  merely ; 
and  lulled,  by  our  exemption  from  these  ills,  into  a  fatal 
security,  we  failed  to  perceive  the  breakers  upon  which 
we  were  slowly  but  surely  drifting.  The  lee-shore 
upon  which  our  ship  was  so  somnolently  rocking  waa 
nothing  less  than  bankruptcy.  Spendthrifts,  we  dreamed 
that  our  inheritance  was  too  vast  ever  to  be  dissipated  ; 
nay,  we  fondly  imagined  that  we  were  adding  to  our 
substance.  Did  not  our  statesmen,  our  Able-Editors,  un 
ceasingly  assure  us  that  we  were  the  richest  people  on 
the  globe,  and  growing  daily  richer?  And  what  had 
been  that  inheritance?  A  noble,  virgin  land,  unsur 
passed,  all  things  considered,  anywhere, — a  land  that 

very  sinful  system,  would  seem  to  have  prepared  for  the  elective  fran 
chise  a  whole  people  lately  buried  in  heathenism,  without,  as  it  were, 
half  trying.  Nor  does  this  claim  rest  merely  upon  that  braggartism  so 
peculiarly  Southern.  The  very  best  people  on  the  other  side — nay,  the 
people  who,  by  their  own  admission,  embrace  all  the  culture  and  virtua 
of  the  country — have  been  the  first  to  give  us  this  meed  of  praise, — yet 
it  is  notorious  that  very  few  white  men  are  yet,  with  all  their  Bacon.1*, 
and  Sydneys,  and  Hainpdens,  and  Jeffersons  to  enlighten  them,  qualified 
lor  that  august  function.  Nay,  even  in  France  herself,  though  she  is, 
as  Victor  Hugo  says, — and  he  should  know, — the  mother  and  the  father, 
and  the  uncle  and  the  aunt,  and  the  brother  and  the  sister  of  civiliza 
tion,  I  believe  there  are  Frenchmen  not  yet  fitted  to  wield  the  ballot, 
— among  whom,  I  doubt  not,  some  profane  persons  would  make  so  bold 
as  to  class  the  illustrious  rhapsodist  himself. 

16 


182  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

cost  us  nothing  beyond  the  beads  of  Captain  Smith  and 
the  bullets  of  his  successors, — a  land  which  no  mort 
gages  smothered,  no  tax-gatherer  devoured.  But 
smothered  and  devoured  it  was,  and  by  our  slaves. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  slavery  was  ever,  at  any  stage 
of  the  world's  history,  wise,  from  an  economical  point 
of  view,  though  it  was,  of  course,  in  one  aspect,  in  the 
interest  of  humanity,  when,  at  some  prehistoric  period, 
men  began  to  enslave  rather  than  butcher  their  prison 
ers  of  war.  But  it  seems  very  clear,  that  if  the  condi 
tions  of  any  society  were  ever  such  that  its  greatest 
productive  force  could  only  be  realized  through  the 
restraints  and  constraints  of  slavery,  then  that  slavery 
must  needs  have  been  absolute  and  pitiless.  No  half- 
and-half  system  will  suffice.  Severe  and  continuous 
labor  is  endured  by  no  man  who  can  avoid  it.  But 
labor,  continuous  and  severe,  is  the  price  paid  by  the 
great  mass  of  mankind  for  the  mere  privilege  of  being 
counted  in  the  census ;  so  terrible  is  that  struggle  for 
existence,  of  the  Darwinian  dispensation,  which,  whether 
we  be  Darwinians  or  not,  we  must  needs  live  under. 
This,  in  our  dreamland,  we  quietly  ignored.  The  politi 
cal  economists  are  all  agreed  that  from  the  sharpest 
toil  little  more  can  be  hoped  for  than  the  barest  sup 
port  of  the  toilers;  and  we  were  not  ignorant  of  politi 
cal  economy.  But  is  there  not  an  exception  to  every 
rule?  And  were  we  not  that  exception?  In  our 
favored  nook,  at  least,  the  cold  dicta  of  science  should 
not  hold  sway.  And  so  our  toilers  did  half  work, — and 
got  double  rations.  In  one  word,  we  spent  more  than 
we  made.  And  although  we  could  not  be  brought  to 
Bee  this,  it  became  very  plain  when  the  war  came  and 
settled  our  accounts  for  us ;  for  I  venture  to  assert  that 
in  April,  1865,  the  State  of  Virginia  was  worth  intrinsi 
cally  less  than  when,  in  1607,  Captain  John  Smith  and 
his  young  gentlemen  landed  at  Jamestown.  In  other 
words,  there  had  been  going  on  for  two  hundred  and 
n'fty  years  a  process  the  reverse  of  accumulation.  For 
that  length  of  time  we  had  been  living  on  our  principal, 
— the  native  wealth  of  the  soil.  While,  in  other  parts 
of  the  country,  the  struggle  for  existence  had  caused 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  183 

barrenness  to  bloom,  the  very  rocks  to  grow  fat,  in  ours 
the  struggle  for  ease  had  converted  a  garden  into  some 
thing  very  like  a  wilderness.  The  forests  we  found  had 
fallen  ;  the  rich  soil  of  many  wide  districts  was  washed 
into  the  sea,  leaving  nothing  to  represent  them ;  and 
when  the  smoke  of  battle  cleared  away,  we  saw  a  naked 
land.  It  could  not  have  been  otherwise.  Thoroughly 
imbued  with  the  spirit  of  the  nineteenth  century,  as 
well  as  the  principles  of  the  Jeffersonian  Democracy, 
we  were  entangled  in  a  system  of  things  not  compati 
ble,  profitably  at  least,  with  either.  We  could  not  for 
get  that  our  slaves  were  human.  There  were  ties  that 
we  felt  in  a  hundred  ways.  We  loved  this  old  nurse. 
We  humored  that  old  butler.  We  indulged,  here  a 
real,  there  a  sham  invalid,  until,  in  one  word,  the  thing 
began  to  cost  more  than  it  came  to,  and  it  was  time  we 
shook  off  the  incubus. 

And  there  was  a  time  when  many  Yirginians,  now 
living,  began  to  see  this;  and  had  they  been  let  alone, 
not  many  years  would  have  passed  before  we  should 
have  freed  ourselves  from  the  weight  that  oppressed 
us.  But  in  an  evil  hour  there  arose  a  handful  of  men 
with  a  mission, — a  mission  to  keep  other  people's  con 
sciences, — often — as  certain  national  moral  phenomena 
subsequently  showed — to  the  neglect  of  that  charity 
which  begins  at  home.  From  that  day  all  rational 
discussion  of  the  question  became  impossible  in  Vir 
ginia  ;  and  a  consummation  for  which  many  of  the 
wisest  heads  were  quietly  laboring  became  odious  even 
to  hint  at,  under  dictation  from  outsiders ;  and  on  the 
day  when  the  first  abolition  society  was  formed,  the 
fates  registered  a  decree  that  slavery  should  go  down  ; 
not  in  peace,  but  by  war ;  not  quietly  and  gradually 
extinguished,  with  the  consent  of  all  concerned,  but 
with  convulsive  violence, — drowned  in  the  blood  of  a 
million  men,  and  the  tears  of  more  than  a  million 
women. 

Well,  they  were  only  white  men  and  women, — so  let 
that  pass,  too. 


184  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 


CHAPTEK  XXIX. 

"  GIT  out  o'  de  way,  you  niggers !  Aint  y'  all  got  no 
manners?  Git  out  o'  Marse  Billy  way  1  I  declar'  fo' 
Gaud  niggers  ain't  got  no  manners  dese  days.  Tain't 
like  it  used  to  be.  Y'  all  gittin'  wuss  and  wuss." 

So  saying,  Aunt  Polly  made  an  unceremonious  open 
ing  among  the  eager  heads  of  the  youngsters  that  were 
thrust  into  the  door-way ;  and  Billy  pressed  laughing- 
through  the  throng,  nodding  here  and  there  as  he 
passed.  His  arrival  was  hailed  with  beaming  smiles 
by  the  ladies,  and  an  almost  uproarious  welcome  by 
the  gentlemen.  The  Don  had  already  opened  his  heart 
to  him  before  he  had  gotten  within  introducing  dis 
tance,  charmed  by  his  frank  and  manly  bearing,  his 
hearty  manner  with  the  gentlemen,  his  gentle  defer 
ence  to  each  lady  in  turn.  So  Billy's  sunny  face,  his 
cordial  rushing  hither  and  thither  to  greet  his  friends, 
his  cheery  laugh  as  he  exchanged  a  bright  word  here 
and  there, — a  laugh  that  revealed  a  set  of  powerful  and 
large,  though  well-shaped  teeth, — all  this  had  lighted 
up  the  thoughtful  face  of  the  Don  with  a  sympathetic 
.glow, — a  glow  that  vanished  when,  on  their  being  in 
troduced,  Billy's  fist  closed  upon  his  hand. 

Mr.  Billy  was  always  a  great  favorite  with  me.  In 
deed,  I  like  to  think  of  him  as  a  kind  of  ideal  young 
Virginian  of  those  days, — so  true,  and  frank,  and  cor 
dial,  and  unpretending.  But  there  is  one  thin^ — I  have 
mentioned  it  above — that,  as  a  historian,  I  am  bound 
to  confess:  Billy  was  addicted  to  playing  on  the  fiddle. 

"  So,  young  ladies,"  said  my  grandfather  (for  whose 
annual  tunes  no  one,  somehow,  had  thought  of  calling), 
"you  will  have  a  fiddle  to  dance  by,  after  all."  A  re 
mark  that  elicited  a  joyous  clapping  of  hands ;  and 
there  was  a  general  stir  for  partners. 

"  Dares  any  man  to  speak  to  me  of  fiddling,"  said 
Billy,  "  before  I  have  punished  a  few  dozen  of  these 
bivalves  ?" 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  185 

"That's  right,  Billy!  Dick,  some  oysters  for  Mr. 
Jones  !  They  were  never  better  than  this  season  !" 

Billy  passed  into  the  next  room,  where  Dick  and  his 
spouse  began  to  serve  him  with  hospitable  zeal. 

"  How  was  she,  Marse  Billy  ?" 

Billy  had  just  disposed  of  a  monster  that  Dick  had 
opened  for  him,  and  was  looking  thoughtful. 

"  Uncle  Dick,  it  almost  makes  me  cry  to  think  how 
much  better  that  oyster  was  than  any  we  can  get  at 
the  University  ;  indeed  it  does." 

Dick  chuckled  with  delight.  "  I  believe  you,  Marse 
Billy;  dey  tells  me  dere  ain't  no  better  oysters  in  all 
Fidginny  dan  de  Leicester  oyster." 

Four  or  five  students,  who,  like  Billy,  had  run  down 
home  for  the  holidays,  had  collected  round  the  door 
way  leading  into  the  library,  and  with  them  several 
girls  who  were  listening  in  a  half-suppressed  titter  to 
Billy's  solemn  waggery.  Lifting  a  huge  "  bivalve"  on 
the  prongs  of  his  fork,  he  contemplatively  surveyed  it. 

"You  are  right,  Uncle  Dick;  Solomon,  in  all  his 
glory,  was  not  arrayed  like  one  of  these!" 

"  Jess  so !  What  I  tell  you,  Polly  ?"  said  Dick,  straight 
ening  himself  and  holding  an  unopened  oyster  in  one 
hand  and  his  knife  in  the  other.  "  Didn't  I  say  the 
Nuniversity  was  de  most  high-larnt  school  in  de  Nunited 
States  ?" 

Polly,  being  Mrs.  Dick,  had  too  great  an  admiration 
for  that  worthy's  wisdom  to  do  anything  but  simper 
assent. 

"  Jess  so," — and  he  held  his  eye  upon  her  till  he  felt 
sure  that  she  had  abandoned  all  thought  of  protesting 
against  his  dictum. — "  eben  so.  You  right,  Marse  Billy ; 
Solomon  nor  no  other  man  never  raised  'em  like  one  o' 
dese.  Ain't  you  takin'  nothin'  to-night,  Marse  William? 
Dey  tells  me  toddy  help  a  oyster  powerful." 

"Uncle  Dick,"  exclaimed  Billy,  with  admiring  sur 
prise,  "  how  do  you  manage  always  to  know  exactly 
what  a  fellow  wants?" 

"  Marse  William," — and  Dick  drew  himself  up  to  his 
full  height, — "  I  ain't  been  'sociatin'  wid  de  quality  all 
dese  years  for  nothin'." 

Ifi* 


186  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

The  dancing  being  over  at  a  reasonable  hour, — Billy 
and  the  Herr  furnishing  the  music, — the  ladies  retired 
to  their  rooms  in  the  "  Great-House,"  leaving  the  gen 
tlemen  to  their  toddy  and  cigars ;  and  a  jovial  crew  they 
became.  Billy  and  the  Herr  bore  a  large  part  in  the 
entertainment  of  the  company, — the  former  executing 
reel  and  jig  and  jig  and  reel  in  dashing  style, — the  lat 
ter  improvising  accompaniments, — his  head  thrown 
back,  a  cigar-stump  between  his  teeth,  and  contem 
plating,  through  his  moist  spectacles,  with  a  serene  Teu 
tonic  merriment,  the  capers  of  the  revellers,  one  or 
another  of  whom  could  not,  from  time  to  time,  resist 
the  fascination  of  the  rhythm,  but  would  spring  to  his 
feet  and  execute  something  in  the  nature  of  a  Highland 
fling  or  a  double-shuffle,  to  the  great  delight  of  the 
others,  and  of  none  more  than  my  glorious  old  grand 
father.  It  is  needless  to  remark  that  at  each  one  of 
these  Terpsichorean  exhibitions  there  was  a  suppressed 
roar  of  chuckles  to  be  heard  issuing  from  the  sable 
throng  that  crowded  the  door-ways,  and  that  there 
might  have  been  seen  as  many  rows  of  ivories  as  there 
were  heads  massed  together  there. 

"  It  is  refreshing,  Mr.  Whacker,"  observed  the  Don, 
whose  reserve  was  unmistakably  thawing  under  the 
apple-toddy,  "  to  see  a  man  of  your  age  sympathizing 
so  heartily  with  us  youngsters  in  our  enjoyments." 

"  Yes,"  remarked  the  old  gentleman,  lolling  comfort 
ably  back  in  his  chair;  "  but  I  am  not  so  sure  that  I  have 
left  all  the  fun  to  the  youngsters  ;"  and  he  nodded  to 
wards  his  empty  glass;  "but  I  believe  I  enjoj^  the 
capers  of  the  boys  more  than  the  toddy." 

"  Go  it,  Billy  1"  cried  a  student,  as  that  artist  dashed 
into  a  jig  with  a  zeal  heightened  by  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  now  slightly  boozy  Herr. 

"Bravo!"  cried  Mr.  Whacker;  "you  will  have  to 
look  to  your  laurels,  Charley." 

"  Oh,  I  resign  !"  said  Charley,  examining  the  rag  on 
his  finger. 

"  By  the  way,  Charley,  you  have  not  yet  shown  Mr. 
Smith  the  old  Guarnerius.  Do  you  take  any  interest  in 
such  things?" 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  187 

"  I  have  a  great  curiosity  to  see  it." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  will  not  show  off  to  advantage.  I 
have  forgotten  to  have  it  mounted  with  strings  this 
Christmas.  Do  you  know  that  a  violin  gets  hoarse,  as 
it  were,  from  lying  idle  ?" 

"  I  have  heard  something  of  the  kind." 

"  I  should  have  had  it  strung  several  days  ago." 

"I  put  strings  on  it  day  before  yesterday,"  said 
Charley. 

"Indeed!"  said  my  grandfather;  "but  you  were 
always  thoughtful.  Let  us  have  it,  Charley." 

Charley's  return  with  the  violin  made  a  stir  among  the 
company.  Billy  stopped  his  fiddling  and  came  up,  fol 
lowed  by  all  present,  to  see  opened  the  case  that  con 
tained  the  wonderful  instrument,  which  was  a  sort  of 
lion  among  the  fiddlers  of  the  county.  My  grandfather 
unlocked  the  case  with  a  certain  nervous  eagerness, 
raised  the  lid  almost  reverently,  and  removing  the 
padded  silken  covering  which  protected  it,  "  Now  just 
look  at  that,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  his  eye  kindling. 

I  have  often  seen  ladies  take  their  female  friends  to 
the  side  of  a  cradle,  and  softly  turning  down  the  cover 
let,  look  up,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Did  you  ever  see 
anything  half  so  beautiful?"  And  I  must  do  the 
female  friends  the  justice  to  add  that  they  always 
signified  that  they  never  had ;  and  I  have  often  seen 
the  subject  of  such  unstinted  praise,  when  brought  be 
fore  males,  pronounced  a  pretty  enough  baby,  but  a 
baby  seemingly  in  no  wise  different  from  all  the  babies 
that  are,  have  been,  or  shall  be;  and  on  such  occasions 
I  can  recall,  methinks,  some  maiden  aunt,  for  example, 
who  has  ended  by  getting  worried  at  the  persistent  in- 
ability  of  some  obstinate  young  fellow  to  see  certain 
points  of  superiority  about  mouth,  eyes,  or  nose,  which 
to  her  were  very  clear.  And  so  it  was  on  this  occasion, 
as  on  many  previous  ones,  with  my  grandfather.  He 
was  always  amazed,  wjaen  he  showed  his  violin,  at  the 
polite  coldness  of  the-praise  that  it  received. 

"  Look  at  those  /-holes,"  said  he,  taking  the  violin 
out  of  its  case  ;  "  look  at  those  clean-cut  corners !"  And 
everybody  craned  his  neck  and  tried  to  see  the  clean- 

16* 


188  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

cut  corners.  "  What  a  contour!"  exclaimed  tbe  enthu 
siastic  old  gentleman,  holding  the  instrument  off  at. 
arm's  length  and  gazing  rapturously  upon  it.  There 
was  a  murmur  of  adhesion,  as  the  French  say. 

"  Splendid !"  ejaculated  Billy,  feeling  that  something 
was  due  from  him  as  the  fiddler  of  the  evening ;  thereby 
drawing  the  gleaming  eyes  of  Mr.  Whacker  full  upon 
him.  "  Splendid !"  repeated  he,  in  a  somewhat  lower 
tone,  and  looking  steadfastly  at  the  violin  ;  for  he  could 
not  look  the  old  gentleman  in  the  face, — knowing — tho 
honest  scamp — that  he  was  &  fraud,  and  saw  nothing 
wonderful  in  the  instrument. 

"  Why,  hand  me  that  old  gourd  you  have  been  play 
ing  on,"  said  Mr.  Whacker;  and  he  snatched  the  fiddle 
from  Billy's  hand.  "Look  at  those  two  scrolls,  for 
example,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  bumping  them  to 
gether  within  three  inches  of  Billy's  nose. 

Billy  took  the  two  necks  in  his  hands,  screwed  up 
his  face,  and  tried  his  best  to  look  knowing;  but  his 
broad,  genial  countenance  could  not  bear  the  tension 
long;  and  a  sudden  flash  of  humor  from  his  kindly 
eyes  set  the  company  in  a  roar,  in  which  my  grand 
father  could  not  help  joining. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  he,  "  I  suppose  I  ought  not  to  ex 
pect  you  to  be  a  connoisseur  in  violins.  Would  you 
like  to  examine  it?"  said  Mr.  Whacker,  thinking  he 
detected  a  look  of  interest  on  the  part  of  the  Don, — and 
he  banded  him  the  instrument. 

The  Unknown  took  it  in  an  awkward  and  confused 
sort  of  way.  My  grandfather  looked  chopf'allen.  "  I 
thought  that  possibly  you  might  have  seen  Cremonas 
in  Europe,"  observed  the  old  man  timidly. 

The  Don  bowed, — whether  in  assent  or  dissent  was 
not  clear;  nor  was  it  any  clearer,  as  he  gently  rocked 
it  to  and  fro,  examining  the /-holes  and  other  points  of 
what  is  known  as  the  belly  of  the  instrument,  whether 
he  was  moved  by  curiosity  or  by  courtesy.  A  motion  of 
his  wrist  brought  the  back  of  the  instrument  in  view. 
"  By  Jove !"  vehemently  exclaimed  the  stranger,  as  a 
flood  of  golden  light  flashed  into  his  eyes  from  tho  un 
approachable  varnish  ;  but  he  colored  and  looked  con- 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  189 

fused  when  he  saw  that  his  warmth  had  drawn  the 
eyes  of  all  upon  himself.  Even  Charley  ceased  exam 
ining  the  bandage  on  his  finger  and  quietly  scrutinized 
the  Don  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes. 

But  you  should  have  seen  your  ancestor  and  mine, 
my  dear  boy.  He  rose  from  his  seat  without  saying  a 
single  word.  There  was  an  expression  of  defiance  in 
his  fine  brown  eyes,  not  unmingled  with  solemnity. 
He  held  out  his  upturned  hands  as  though  he  were 
going  to  begin  a  speech,  I  was  going  to  say, — but  it  was 
not  that.  His  look  and  attitude  were  those  of  an  ad 
vocate  who  has  just  brought  a  poser  to  bear  on  opposing 
counsel.  And  such  my  grandfather  felt  was  his  case. 
"  For  years,"  his  looks  seemed  to  say,  "  I  have  been 
chaffed  about  my  Guarnerius  by  you  bumpkins,  and 
now  here  comes  a  man  who  puts  you  all  down  by  one 
word."  He  looked  from  face  to  face  to  see  if  any  of  the 
company  had  anything  to  say  to  the  contrary.  At  last 
his  eye  met  Billy's.  That  young  gentleman,  willing  to 
retrieve  his  disastrous  defeat  in  the  matter  of  scrolls 
and  contours  and /-holes,  again  came  to  the  front. 

"Doesn't  it  shine !"  remarked  that  unfortunate  youth, 
approvingly. 

"Shine!"  shouted  my  grandfather,  indignantly, — 
"shine!"  repeated  he  with  rising  voice,  and  rapping 
the  back  of  the  violin  with  his  knuckles, — "  do  you 
call  that  shiny  ?"  said  he,  with  another  rap,  and  hold 
ing  the  instrument  in  front  of  Billy.  "  Why,  a  tin  pan 
shines, — a  well-fed  negro  boy's  face  shines, — and  you  say 
that  shines,"  he  added,  with  an  argumentative  rap.  "Is 
that  the  way  you  are  taught  to  discriminate  in  the  use 
of  words  at  the  University  ?"  And  the  old  gentleman 
smiled,  mollified  by  Billy's  evident  confusion  and  the 
shouts  of  laughter  that  greeted  his  discomfiture. 

"  Why,  Uncle  Tom,  if  that  violin  doesn't  shine,  what 
does  it  do  ?" 

"  Why,  it — well — I  should  say — ahem ! — in  fact,  it — 
j » 

"  What  would  you  call  it,  Uncle  Tom  ?"  urged  Billy, 
rallying  bravely  from  his  rout,  and  trying  to  assume  a 
wicked  smile. 


190  THE  STORY    OF  DON  MIFF. 

""What  would  I  call  it?  I  would  call  it— well— the 
violin — confound  it!  I  should  hold  my  tongue  nit  her 
than  say  that  violin  was  shiny."  And  the  old  gentleman 
turned  upon  his  heel  and  stalked  across  the  room ;  but 
Billy  was  not  the  man  to  relinquish  his  advantage. 

"Now,  Uncle  Tom,  that  is  not  fair,"  said  he,  follow 
ing  up  his  adversary,  and  holding  on  to  the  lappel  of 
his  coat  in  an  affectionately  teasing  manner.  "  Give  us 
your  word." 

"Shiny!  shiny!"  spluttered  the  old  gentleman  with 
testy  scorn. 

"Ah,  but  that  won't  do.  Let  the  company  have 
your  word,  Uncle  Tom."  And  the  young  rogue  tipped 
a  wink  to  a  knot  of  students.  "  The  violin  is —  ?" 

"EFFULGENT!"  shouted  his  adversary,  wheeling 
upon  him  and  bringing  down  the  violin,  held  in  both 
hands,  with  a  swoop. 

I  shall  take  the  liberty  here  of  assuming  that  my  read 
ers  are,  as  I  was  myself,  till  Charley  enlightened  me, 
ignorant  of  the  fact  that  the  varnish  of  the  violins  of 
the  old  masters  is  considered  a  great  point.  Collectors 
go  into  raptures  over  the  peculiar  lustre  of  their  old 
instruments,  which,  they  say,  is  the  despair  of  modern 
makers.  I  have  myself  seen,  or  at  least  handled,  but 
one  of  them, — my  grandfather's  old  Guarnerius, — and 
that,  certainly,  was  singularly  beautiful  in  this  respect. 

"  Effulgent !"  cried  he,  his  noble  brown  eyes  dilated, 
his  head  tossed  back  and  swaying  from  side  to  side, — 
tapping  gently,  with  the  finger-nails  of  his  right  hand, 
the  back  of  the  violin,  upon  which  the  light  of  a  neigh 
boring  lamp  danced  and  flamed.  The  students  indi 
cated  to  Billy,  in  their  hearty  fashion,  that  he  had  got 
what  he  wanted,  and  Mr.  Whacker,  spurred  on  by  their 
approval,  rose  to  the  height  of  his  great  argument. 

"Just  look  at  that,"  said  he,  turning  with  enthusiasm 
to  one  of  the  students, — "just  look  at  that,"  he  repeated, 
flashing  the  golden  light  into  the  eyes  of  another; 
"  why,  it  almost  seems  to  me  that  we  have  here  the 
very  rays  that,  a  century  ago,  this  maple  wood  absorbed 
in  its  pores  from  the  sun  of  Italy." 

How  much  more  my  grandfather  was  going  to  say 


TEE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  191 

I  know  not ;  for  he  was  interrupted  by  a  storm  of 
applause  from  his  young  auditors. 

"  1  say,  boys,  that's  a  regular  old-fashioried  '  curl,' " 
whispered  one  of  them. 

"  Uncle  Tom,"  said  Billy,  removing  the  bow  from  the 
case,  "  does  this  effulge  any  ?" 

"  But,  Mr.  Whacker,"  observed  a  fat  and  jolly  middle- 
aged  gentleman,  "  it  strikes  me  that  the  important 
thing  about  a  fiddle  is  its  tone,  not  its  varnish.  Now, 
do  you  really  think  your  Cremona  superior  to  a  twenty- 
dollar  fiddle  in  tone?  Honestly  now,  is  there  any 
difference  worth  mentioning?" 

"Any  difference?  Heavens  above!  Why,  listen!" 
And  the  old  gentleman  drew  the  bow  slowly  over 
double  strings,  till  the  air  of  the  room  seemed  to  palpi 
tate  with  the  rich  harmony.  "Did  you  ever  hear 
anything  like  that?"  exclaimed  he,  with  flushing  face; 
and  he  drew  the  bow  again  and  again.  There  were 
exclamations  of  admiration — real  or  affected — all  around 
the  room. 

The  Don  alone  was  silent. " 

I  remember  looking  towards  him  with  a  natural 
curiosity  to  see  what  he — the  only  stranger  present — 
appeared  to  think  of  the  instrument;  but  he  gave  no 
sign, — none,  at  least,  that  I  could  interpret.  He  was 
gazing  fixedly  at  my  grandfather  with  a  sort  of  rapt 
look, — his  head  bowed,  his  lips  firmly  compressed,  but 
twitching  a  little.  His  eyes  had  a  certain  glitter  about 
them,  strongly  contrasting  with  their  usual  expression 
of  unobtrusive  endurance.  I  looked  towards  Charley, 
but  his  eyes  did  not  meet  mine;  for  he  had  turned  his 
chair  away  from  the  fire,  and  was  scrutinizing  the 
stranger's  face  with  a  quiet  but  searching  look. 

"It  is  a  little  hoarse  from  long  disuse,"  said  Mr. 
Whacker,  drawing  the  bow  slowly  as  before. 

"  Give  us  a  tune,  Uncle  Tom  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes !"  joined  in  a  chorus.     "  Give  us  a  tune !" 

"Pshaw!"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "it  would  be  a 
profanation  to  play  a  '  tune'  on  this  instrument." 

"  There  is  where  I  don't  agree  with  you,  Mr. 
Whacker,"  put  in  the  fat  and  jolly  middle-aged  gen- 


192  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

tleman.  "  The  last  time  I  was  in  Richmond  I  went 
to  hear  Ole  Bull ;  and  such  stuff  as  he  played  I  wish 
never  to  hear  again, — nothing  but  running  up  and 
down  the  strings,  with  de'il  a  bit  of  tune  that  I  could 
see." 

"  That's  precisely  my  opinion,"  said  another.  "  Con 
found  their  science,  say  I." 

"Why,  yes,"  continued  the  jolly  fat  middle-aged 
gentleman,  encouraged.  "  The  fact  is,  it  spoils  a  fiddler 
to  teach  him  his  notes.  Music  should  come  from  the 
heart.  Why,  I  don't  wish  to  flatter  our  friend  Billy 
here,  but,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  would  rather 
hear  him  than  all  the  Ole  Bulls  and  Paganinis  that 
ever  drew  a  bow." 

"  Bather  hear  Billy  ?  I  should  think  so !  Why,  any 
left-handed  negro  fiddler  can  beat  those  scientific  fel 
lows  all  hollow." 

My  grandfather,  during  the  passage  at  arms  that  en 
sued  upon  the  expression  of  these  sentiments,  grow 
rather  warm,  and  at  last  appealed  to  the  Don.  He,  as 
though  loath  to  criticise  the  performance  of  our  friend 
Billy,  spoke  guardedly.  "  I  should  think,"' said  he,  "  that 
music  would  be  like  anything  else, — those  who  devoted 
most  time  to  it  would  be  most  proficient." 

"  Of  gourse !"  broke  in  the  Herr,  who  had  not  allowed 
the  discussion  to  draw  him  very  far  from  the  bowl  of 
toddy.  "  Now,  joost  look  at  unser  frient  Pilly.  Dot 
yung  mon  has  a  real  dalent  for  de  feedle, — but  vot  ho 
blay?  Noding  als  reels  unt  cheeks  unt  zuch  dinks. 
Joost  sent  dot  yung  mon  one  time  nach  Europen,  unt 
by  a  goot  master.  Donnerwetter,  I  show  you  somedink ! 
Tausendteufels  I"  added  he,  draining  his  glass,  "  vot  for 
a  feedler  dot  yung  Pilly  make !" 

I  may  remark  that  just  in  proportion  as  the  Herr 
mollified  his  water  did  he  dilute  his  English.  Just  in 
proportion  as  he  approached  the  bottom  of  a  punch 
bowl  did  the  language  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton 
become  to  him  an  obscure  idiom. 

"  Won't  you  try  its  tone  ?"  said  Mr.  Whacker,  offer 
ing  the  violin  and  bow  to  the  Don. 

"  Oh,"  replied  he,  deprecatingly. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  193 

"  It's  of  no  consequence  that  you  can't  play,"  insisted 
the  old  gentleman.  "  Just  try  the  tone.  Here,  this 
way,"  added  he,  putting  the  violin  under  the  Don's 
chin. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  I,  a  bachelor,  should  be  so 
fond  of  illustrating  my  scenes  by  means  of  babies ;  but 
as  the  whole  frame-work  and  cast  of  this  story  compels 
me  to  marry  at  some  future  day,  I  may  be  allowed  to 
Bay  that  the  Don  held  the  violin  just  as  I  have  seen 
young  fellows  hold  an  infant  that  had  been  thrust  into 
their  arms  by  some  mischievous  young  girl.  Afraid  to 
refuse  to  take  it  lest  the  mother  be  hurt,  they  are  in 
momentary  terror  lest  it  fall. 

"  There!  So!"  exclaimed  the  old  gentleman,  adjust 
ing  the  instrument. 

While  every  one  else  smiled  at  the  scene,  Charley 
was,  strangely  enough,  almost  convulsed  with  a  noise 
less  chuckle  that  brought  the  tears  into  his  eye#. 

"  The  old  boy  feels  his  toddy,"  thought  I. 

The  Don  began  to  scrape  dismally. 

"Ah,  don't  hold  the  bow  so  much  in  the  middle! — 
So! — That's  better! — Now  pull  away!  Keep  the  bow 
straight !— There,  that's  right !  So !— " 

Charley  rocked  in  his  seat. 

"  Now,  up !  Down !  Up !  Down !  Up !  Very  good  1 
Down  !  Up !  Bow  straight ! — " 

Charley  leaped  from  his  chair  and  held  his  sides. 
"Well,  even  Cato  occasionally  moistened  his  clay. 

"  So !  Better  still !  Excellent !  Upon  my  word, 
you  are  an  apt  scholar!" 

Charley  dropped  into  his  seat,  threw  back  his  head, 
and  shut  his  eyes. 

The  Don  paused,  smiling. 

"What  a  tone!"  exclaimed  my  grandfather.  "Oh! 
cried  he  with  intense  earnestness,  "  if — if  I  could  but 
hear,  once  again,  an  artist  play  upon  that  violin !" 

The  smile  passed  from  the  Unknown's  face..  A 
strange  look  came  into  his  eyes,  as  though  his  thoughts 
were  far  away.  His  chin  relaxed  its  hold  upon  the 
violin  and  pressed  upon  his  breast.  His  right  arm 
slowly  descended  till  the  tip  of  the  bow  almost  touched 
i  n  17 


194  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

the  floor;  and  there  he  stood,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  thw 
ground.  A  stillness  overspread  the  company.  No  one 
moved  a  muscle  save  Charley.  He,  with  an  odd  smilo 
in  his  eyes,  softly  drew  from  his  pocket  a  small  pen 
knife  and  held  it  in  his  left  hand,  with  the  nail  of  his 
right  thumb  in  the  notch  of  the  blade. 

Slowly,  and  as  if  unconsciously  to  himself,  the  Don's 
right  arm  began  to  move.  The  violin  rose,  somehow, 
till  it  found  its  way  under  his  chin. 

Charley  opened  his  knife. 

There  were  signs  in  the  Unknown's  countenance  of 
a  sharp  but  momentary  struggle,  when  his  right  arm 
suddenly  sprang  from  its  pendent  position,  and  the 
wrist,  arched  like  the  neck  of  an  Arab  courser,  stood, 
for  a  second,  poised  above  the  bridge. 

Charley  passed  the  blade  of  his  knife  through  the 
threads  that  bound  the  bandage  about  his  finger,  and 
the  linen  rag  fell  to  the  floor ;  and  he  rose  and  folded 
his  arms  across  his  breast. 

The  bow  descended  upon  the  Or  string.  The  stranger 
gave  one  of  those  quick  up-strokes  with  the  lowest  inch 
of  the  horse-hair,  followed  by  a  down-stroke  of  the 
whole  length  of  the  bow. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE  note  sounded  was  the  lower  A,  produced,  if  1 
may  be  allowed  to  enrich  my  style  with  a  borrowed 
erudition,  by  stopping  the  G  string  with  the  first  finger. 
Whimsical  as  the  idea  may  seem  to  a  musician,  I  have 
always  considered  this  the  noblest  tone  within  the 
register  of  the  violin ;  and  such  an  A  I  had  never  be 
fore  heard.  I  have  already  mentioned  the  extraordi 
nary  acoustical  properties  of  this  room,  the  very  air  of 
which  seemed  to  palpitate,  the  very  walls  to  tremble 
beneath  the  powerful  vibrations.  The  deep,  long-drawn 
tone  ceased,  and  again  the  wrist  stood  for  a  moment 
arched  above  the  bridge.  A  breathless  stillness  reigned 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  195 

throughout  the  room,  while  the  Don  stood  there,  with 
pale  face,  his  dark  eyes  "  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling," — 
stood  there,  one  might  say,  in  a  trance,  forgetful  of  his 
audience,  forgetful  of  self,  unconscious  of  all  else  save  the 
violin  clasped  between  chin  and  breast.  Down  came 
the  fingers  of  the  left  hand ;  with  them  the  bow  de 
scended,  this  time  upon  all  four  strings ;  and  four  notes 
leaped  forth,  crisp,  clear,  and  sparkling,  brilliant  as 
shooting-stars !  Then  chord  after  chord  ;  and,  in  mad 
succession,  arpeggios,  staccatos,  pizzicatos,  chromatic 
scales,  octaves,  fierce,  dizzy  leaps  from  nut  to  bridge, 
cries  of  joy,  mutterings  of  rage,  moans  of  despair,  all 
were  there, — a  very  pandemonium  of  sound  ! 

It  was  not  a  composition, — hardly  an  improvisation, 
even  ;  for  neither  was  key  sustained  nor  time  ob 
served.  It  resembled,  more  than  anything  else  I  can 
compare  it  to,  the  mad  carolling  of  a  mocking-bird  as  ho 
flaps  and  sails  from  the  topmost  branch  of  a  young 
tulip  poplar  to  another  hard  by,  pouring  forth  in  scorn 
ful  profusion  his  exhaustless  and  unapproachable  tide 
of  song,  little  recking  what  comes  first  and  what  next, 
— whether  the  clear  whistle  of  the  partridge,  the  shrill 
piping  of  the  woodpecker,  or  the  gentle  plaint  of  the 
turtle-dove. 

And  the  mad  dancing  of  the  bow  went  on,  amid  a 
silence  that  was  absolute.  But  it  was  a  silence  like 
that  of  a  keg  of  gunpowder,  where  a  spark  sufiices  to 
release  the  imprisoned  forces. 

The  spark  came  in  the  shape  of  an  interjection  from 
the  deep  chest  of  Uncle  Dick. 

But  how  am  I  to  represent  that  interjection  to  pos 
terity? 

There  came  a  pause. 

"  Umgh-u-m-g-h !"  grunted  our  venerable  butler.  Ana 
straightway  there  ensued  a  scene  which — 

But  future  ages  must  first  be  told  precisely  what 
Uncle  Dick  said ;  for,  as  all  Virginians,  at  least,  know, 
when  you  limit  yourself  to  reporting  of  a  man  that  he 
said  umgh-umgh,  you  have  given  a  meagre  and  inade 
quate,  certainly  an  ambiguous,  interpretation  of  his 
sentiments. 


196  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

Not  to  go  into  any  refinements,  it  suffices  to  say 
that  besides  a  score  of  other  umgh-umghs  of  radically 
distinct  significance,  there  are  umgh-umghs  which 
mean  yes,  and  umgh-umghs  which  mean  no.  For  ex 
ample,  "  Dearest,  do  you  love  me  ?"  Now  the  umgh- 
umgh  that  may  be  supposed  in  this  case  is  a  kind  of 
flexible,  india-rubber  yes,  ranging  all  the  way  from 
"Perhaps"  to  "Oh,  most  dearly!"  (but  Charley  says 
that  it  is  umgh-humgh,  not  umgh-umgh,  that  means 
yes ;)  now  follow  up  your  question  with  a  demonstra 
tion"  as  though  you  would  test  matters, — umgh-umgh  I 
What  a  no  is  there  1  "Are  you  crazy?  Eight  out 
here  in  the  summer-house!  with  people  strolling  all 
around,  and  the  vines  so  thin  that — " 

Now,  Uncle  Dick's  umgh-umgh  was  not  at  all  an 
umgh-umgh  affirmative,  still  less  an  umgh-umgh  nega 
tive.  'Twas  rather  an  umgh-umgh  eulogistic,  as  though 
he  said,  Words  are  inadequate  to  express  my  feelings. 
Now,  a  less  painstaking  author  than  myself  would  say 
no  more  just  here;  aware  that  every  Virginian,  at 
least,  knows  what  is  meant  by  the  umgh-umgh  eulo 
gistic  ;  but  the  contemporary  reader  must  pardon  me 
for  reminding  him  that  this  book  has  not  been  written 
entii'ely,  or  even  mainly,  for  him,  but  rather  for  genera 
tions  yet  unborn, — notably  the  generations  of  the 
Whackers.  I  esteem  it,  therefore,  singularly  fortunate 
that  my  friend  Charley  happens  to  have  made  an  ex 
haustive  study  of  this  same  umgh-umgh  language,  and 
especially  so  that  he  has  been  at  the  pains  of  elucida 
ting  his  subject  by  means  of  a  musical  notation.  Know, 
then,  oh,  propinqui  longinqui! — oh,  manus  innumerabiles 
Whackerorum ! — that  the  exact  sound  uttered  by  that 
unapproachable  Automedon  was : 

CARLO  FROBISIIERINI.    Opus  99. 
Andante  tottenuto  e  scherzando. 


motto  voce.    Umgh    -    uingh  I 

"An  andante  scherzando  f"  exclaimed  my  grandfather, 
on  seeing  the  notation ;  "  how  is  that  ?" 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  19'/ 

""Pis  because  mine  Uncle  Richard  hath  neglected 
the  study  of  thorough  bass ;  hence  he  warbleth  his  na 
tive  wood-notes  wild,"  quoth  Charley. 

But  to  return  to  the  scene  in  the  Hall.  And  I  beg 
that  the  reader  will  place  himself  entirely  in  my  hands, 
while  I  endeavor  to  make  him  realize  every  feature  of 
that  scene, — for  it  really  occurred  just  as  he  will  find 
it  recorded. 

Figure  to  yourselves,  then,  my  countless  readers  and 
admirers,  first  the  Hall  itself,  with  its  lofty  ceiling  and 
its  spacious,  well-waxed  floor  of  heart-pine  so  nicely 
joined  that  it  was  a  sound-board  in  itself.  At  one  end 
of  the  room  stood  a  piano ;  at  the  other  was  a  vast 
open  fireplace,  in  which,  supported  by  tall  and  glisten 
ing  andirons,  there  glowed  a  noble  fire  of  hickory  logs 
five  feet  long.  The  furniture  in  the  room  was  peculiar, 
consisting  of  a  square  table  of  exceeding  lightness, 
and  chairs  that  you  might  toss  in  the  air  with  your 
little  finger, — all  with  a  view  to  the  least  possible  weight 
upon  the  floor, — though  I  must  say  that  they  were 
often  the  means  of  bringing  heavy  weights  in  contact 
with  it.  Add  to  these  a  lounge  of  slenderest  propor 
tions,  upon  which  my  grandfather  loved  to  recline, 
pipe  in  mouth,  whenever  any  music  was  going  forward  ; 
and  you  have  all  the  furniture  that  the  room  possessed. 
Of  other  objects  there  were  absolutely  none  upon  the 
floor,  except  four  cases  containing  the  instruments 
needful  to  a  string  quartet ;  and  these  stood  each  in  its 
own  corner,  as  though  on  ill  terms.  The  old  gentle 
man  had  banished  from  the  Hall  even  his  collection  of 
music,  great  piles  of  which  were  stowed  away  in  the 
adjoining  room ;  for  he  insisted  that  its  weight  would 
mar  the  resonance  of  the  Hall.  It  remains  but  to 
add  that  upon  the  walls  no  painting  or  engraving 
was  allowed.  Their  smooth  finish  showed  no  crack, 
— so  that  the  Herr  used  to  say  that  the  hall,  if 
strung,  would  have  been  a  very  goot  feedle  for  Boly- 
phemoos,  or  some  oder  of  dem  chiant  singers  to  blay 
on. 

So  much  for  the  Hall,  around  which,  on  the  Christ 
mas  Eve  in  question,  were  grouped  nearly  all  my  grand- 

17* 


198  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

father's  slaves  old  enough  to  be  out  on  so  cold  a  night, 
reinforced  by  many  of  Charley's. 

And  I  am  not  so  sure  that  the  outsiders  were  not 
having  a  merrier  time  than  the  insiders.  For  every 
now  and  then,  throughout  the  evening,  my  grandfather 
might  have  been  seen  passing  glasses  of  toddy  or  egg- 
nog  to  one  or  another  of  the  favorite  old  servants,  as 
he  observed  them  in  the  throng;  and  Charley  and  I 
saw  that  the  rest  had  no  cause  to  feel  slighted.  All  had 
their  share, — if  not  of  toddy,  at  least  of  that  without 
which  all  toddy  is  a  delusion  and  a  shadow.  Then  the 
sound  of  Jones's  fiddle  could  not  be  kept  within-doors, 
and  such  of  them  as  despaired  of  forcing  their  way 
through  the  masses  around  the  windows  and  doors 
had  formed  rings,  where,  by  the  light  of  the  wintry 
moon,  the  champion  dancers  of  the  two  farms  exhibited 
to  admiring  throngs  what  they  knew  about  the  double- 
shuffle  and  the  break-down ;  and  the  solid  earth  re 
sounded  beneath  the  rhythm  of  their  brogans.  To  me, 
I  remember,  they  seemed  happy,  at  the  time ;  which 
goes  to  show  how  little  I  knew  about  happiness, — and 
I  believe  that  they  too  were  under  the  same  delusion; 
but  their  early  educations  had  been  neglected. 

Happy  or  wretched,  however,  let  them  form  a  frame, 
as  it  were,  for  the  picture  I  would  conjure  up  for  my 
reader.  The  first  note  drawn  forth  by  the  Don  had 
arrested  their  attention,  and  there  was  a  rush  for  every 
spot  from  which  a  view  could  be  had  of  the  performer. 
See  them,  therefore,  a  few  of  the  older  ones  just  inside 
the  door,  the  less  fortunate  craning  their  necks  behind, 
and  upon  their  faces  that  rapt  attention  which  is  an 
inspiration  to  an  artist.  See  those  others  who,  huddled 
upon  boxes  and  barrels  piled  beneath  the  windows,  are 
flattening  their  noses,  one  might  almost  say,  against 
the  lower  panes.  At  the  library  door  stood  one  or  two 
tidy  house-maids.  Uncle  Dick,  alone,  stood  near  the 
roaring  fire,  he  assuming  that  his  services  were  re 
quired. 

"Hi I  what  dat?"  exclaimed  a  youngster,  when  the 
strange  sound  first  broke  upon  his  ear;  for  he  could 
not  see  the  Don  from  where  he  stood. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  199 

"Heish,  boy!"  broke  in  a  senioi-,  in  stern  rebuke; 
"  Don't  you  see  'tis  de  new  gent'mun  a-playin'  on  the 
fiddle?"  And  silence  reigned  again, — a  silence  broken, 
from  time  to  time,  by  a  low,  rippling  chuckle  of  intense 
delight,  and  illumined,  one  might  say,  by  the  whites  of 
an  hundred  pairs  of  wondering  eyes. 

And  now  let  us  glance  at  the  dozen  gentlemen  who 
sat  within,  beginning  with  my  dear  old  grandfather. 

At  the  first  long-drawn,  sonorous  note  he  had  sprung 
to  his  feet ;  and  there  he  stood,  with  both  hands  raised 
and  extended  as  though  he  commanded  silence.  And 
his  countenance!  never  had  I  seen  it  look  so  beau 
tiful  !  A  happy  smile  lit  up  his  noble  face,  and  he 
seemed  to  say  as  he  looked  from  Charley  to  me,  and 
from  me  to  Charley,  "At  last!"  And  Charley  stood 
leaning  against  a  corner  of  the  mantel-piece,  with  his 
arms  folded,  replying  to  his  friend  with  sympathetic 
glances.  It  was  plain  to  see  that  he  was  happy  in  his 
old  friend's  happiness,  but  there  was  a  droll  twinkle  in 
his  eyes  that  even  he  could  not  suppress,  though  he  bit 
his  lip.  What  it  meant  I  could  not,  of  course,  divine. 

It  was  a  treat  to  behold  the  Herr  on  this  occasion. 
"With  his  forearm  resting  on  the  table,  his  fingers  toying 
with  the  stem  of  his  goblet,  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair 
and  smiled,  through  his  gold-rimmed  spectacles,  with 
a  look  of  profound  Germanic  content  and  good  nature. 
Not  once  did  he  remove  his  benignant  eyes  from  the  Don, 
not  even  when  he  raised  his  half-full  glass  to  his  lips 
and  drained  it  to  the  last  drop.  Even  then  he  watched, 
out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  the  fantastic  caperings  of  the 
bow  and  the  labyrinthine  wanderings  of  the  performer's 
fingers  ;  and  slowly  replacing  his  glass  upon  the  table, 
stroked  his  long  and  straggling  beard  so  softly  that  he 
seemed  to  fear  that  the  sparse  hairs  would  mar  the 
music  by  their  rattling. 

One  word  will  suffice  for  the  jolly,  fat,  middle-aged 
gentleman.  He  sat  with  his  mouth  wide  open,  tilting 
back  in  one  of  my  grandfather's  skeleton  chairs. 

Now,  that  was  not  safe. 

But  there  is  one  face  that  I  shall  not  attempt  to  de 
scribe, — that  of  young  Jones,  the  University  man,  upon 


200  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

whom  it  flashed,  like  a  revelation,  that  he  had  been, 
without  knowing  it,  fiddling  away  for  hours  in  the  pres 
ence  of  an  artist.  It  naturally  occurred  to  Bill}7  that  a 
huge  joke  had  been  perpetrated  at  his  expense ;  and 
after  the  first  few  notes,  he  tried  to  nerve  himself  to 
meet  the  explosion  of  laughter  that  he  momentarily  ex 
pected.  But  his  furtive  glances  from  side  to  side  de 
tected  no  one  looking  his  way, — no  symptom  of  a  joke,  in 
fact, — so  that  the  flush  of  confusion  began  to  recede,  sup 
planted  by  a  glow  of  enthusiasm.  I  leave  it  to  the 
reader,  then,  to  imagine  the  play  of  expression  on  the 
countenance  of  this  big,  manly  fellow, — rejoicing  in  his 
strength,  and  brimful  of  rollicking  humor,  loving  a  joke 
even  at  his  own  expense,  as  he  stood  there  before  the 
Don ;  at  one  time  carried  away  by  the  impetuosity  of 
the  performer,  at  another  flushing  up  to  his  eyes  when 
he  reflected  that,  if  no  one  else  had  served  him  that 
turn,  he,  at  least,  had  made  a  fool  of  himself. 

This  is  tableau  No.  1,  but,  for  clearness'  sake,  let  me 
retouch  its  outlines. 

A  large  room,  with  a  roaring  fire  at  one  end,  and 
doors  open,  Virginia  fashion.  In  the  doors  and  windows 
a  background — or  blackground — of  colored  brethren 
and  sisters,  exhibiting  a  breathless  delight,  all  their 
teeth,  and  the  largest  surface,  functionably  practicable, 
of  the  whites  of  their  eyes.  Within,  stands  my  grand 
father,  on  tiptoe,  with  outstretched  arms,  which  wave 
gently  up  and  down,  as,  from  time  to  time,  snatches  of 
rhythm  drop  out  of  the  chaos  of  chords  and  runs  that 
are  pouring  from  his  Guarnerius.  Next  the  jolly  fat 
middle-aged  gentleman,  tilting  back,  open-mouthed,  in 
one  of  Mr.  Whacker's  phantom  chairs,  and  rather  near 
the  fire.  Then  Mr.  William  Jones  himself,  who  just  at 
this  moment  has  compressed  his  lips,  and  resolved  that 
he  will  smash  his  fiddle  and  break  his  bow  just  so  soon 
as  he  reaches  No.  28,  East  Lawn,  U.  V.  Then  there 
is  the  Herr  Waldteufel,  smiling  through  clouded  glasses, 
but  not  darkly.  Then — to  omit  half  a  dozen  gentle 
men — there  was  the  inscrutable  Charley,  leaning,  with 
a  certain  subdued  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  against  one  end 
of  the  mantel-piece,  while  near  the  other  stood,  in  re- 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  201 

spectful  attitude,  Uncle  Dick,  his  hands  clasped  in  front 
of  his  portly  person,  his  bald  head  bent  low,  his  left  ear 
towards  the  music,  his  eyes  fixed  askance  upon  the  fire 
to  his  right. 

Midst  this  scene  of  perfect  stillness  stood  the  Don, — 
his  body  swaying  to  and  fro.  The  old  G-uarnerius 
seemed  to  be  waking  from  its  long  slumber,  and,  as  if 
conscious  that  once  more  a  master  held  it,  to  be  warm 
ing  to  its  work.  The  music  grew  madder.  At  last 
there  came  some  fierce  chords,  then  a  furious  fortissimo 
chromatic  scale  of  two  or  three  octaves,  with  a  sudden 
and  fantastic  finish  of  fairy-like  harmonics, — the  snarl 
ing  of  a  tiger,  one  might  say,  echoed  by  the  slender 
pipings  of  a  phantom  cicada : 


Umgh    -    umgh  I 


CHAPTEE  XXXI. 

IT  was  a  match  to  the  mine,  that  umgh-umgli  eu 
logistic,  and  the  explosion  was  tremendous;  for  my 
grandfather's  toddy-bowl,  though  wide  and  deep,  was 
now  nearly  empty.  In  an  instant  every  man  was  on 
his  feet,  cheering  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  Such  hats  as 
were  available,  seized  without  regard  to  ownership, 
were  frantically  whirling  in  the  air;  tumblers  went 
round  in  dizzy  circles ;  centrifugal  toddy  was  splashing 
in  every  direction  ;  while  the  rear  ranks  of  the  colored 
cohorts  were  scrambling  over  the  backs  of  those  in 
front,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  scene.  In  the  midst  of 
it  all,  the  honest  Herr  was  to  be  seen  rushing  to  and 
fro,  lustily  shouting  out  some  proposition  as  to  the 
health  of  the  stranger.  He  was  brandishing  his  goblet, 
which  he  had  managed  to  fill,  notwithstanding  the  con 
fusion,  and  offering  to  chink  glasses  with  any  and  all 
comers,  when,  as  ill  luck  would  have  it,  he  ran  into  one 


202  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

of  the  students  as  enthusiastic  as  himself,  and  the  twain 
suddenly  found  themselves  holding  in  their  hands  noth 
ing  but  the  stems  of  their  goblets. 

"Ah,  mein  freund,"  said  he,  with  a  glance  at  his 
soaked  shirt-front,  "  vot  for  a  poonch  vas  dat  1" 

"Very  good,  very  good!"  cried  the  student,  with  a 
rousing  slap  on  his  shoulder;  for  a  vague  feeling  came 
over  the  young  man  that  one  of  the  Herr's  puns  was 
lurking  somewhere  in  the  mist. 

But  the  most  stinking  figure  in  tableau  No.  2  was 
that  of  my  grandfather.  As  soon  as  Uncle  Dick's  ap 
plauding  grunt  had  broken  the  spell  that  held  the  com 
pany,  and  while  all  were  cheering  lustily,  he  rushed  up 
to  the  Don,  and  placed  his  hands  in  an  impressive  way 
on  his  shoulders.  The  cheering  suddenly  ceased,  and 
all  listened  intently  save  the  Herr  and  his  student,  who, 
having  found  fresh  tumblers,  were  busy  scooping  up 
the  last  of  the  punch. 

"  My  friend,"  said  my  grandfather,  "  Charley  and  I 
are  but  two  in  this  big  house," — and  thei-e  was  a  simple 

pathos  in  his  manner  and  tones "  Won't  you  live  with 

us — for  good  ?" 

Tremendous  applause  greeted  this  rather  thorough 
going  invitation ;  and  tableau  No.  2  dissolved  in  con 
fusion  ;  in  the  midst  of  which  stood  the  Don,  bowing 
and  laughing,  and  wisely  holding  high  above  his  head 
the  precious  violin. 

"  Ah,  dere  spoke  de  Barrone !"  quoth  the  Herr,  bal 
ancing  himself,  and  clinking  half-filled  glasses  with  his 
student. 

"  Good  for  Uncle  Tom  !"  echoed  the  latter. 

"So!"  chimed  in  the  Herr,  blinking  at  the  ceiling 
through  the  bottom  of  his  tumbler. 

"  I  am  in  downright  earnest,  I  assure  you,"  urged 
Mr.  Whacker,  on  remarking  the  pleased  merriment  of 
the  Don.  "  Eh,  Charley?" 

"So  say  we  all  of  us!"  said  Charley,  with  jovial 
earnestness,  and  shaking,  with  great  cordiality,  the 
stranger's  right  hand,  whence  I  had  removed  the  bow. 

Uncle  Dick  now  came  to  the  fore  again.  Unclo 
Richard  was  a  humorist,  and,  with  all  the  tact  of  his 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  203 

race,  know  perfectly  well,  bow,  while  preserving  a 
severe  decorum  of  form,  to  make  his  little  hit.  So 
now,  turning  to  Aunt  Polly,  with  a  look  on  his  face  of 
childlike  simplicity,  beneath  which  lurked  a  studied 
unconsciousness,  he  asked,  in  the  most  artless  stage- 
whisper, — 

"Polly,  whar's  Marse  William  Jones?"  And  rising 
on  his  toes  and  letting  his  under  jaw  drop,  as  one  will 
when  peering  over  the  heads  of  a  crowd  in  search  of  a 
friend's  face,  he  ran  his  eyes,  with  a  kind  of  unobtru 
sive  curiosity,  over  group  after  group,  till  they  met 
Marse  William's ;  then  instantly  dropped  them  as  if  he 
simply  desired  to  be  assured  that  his  Marse  William 
was  there.  'Twas  perfect  art,  and  the  effect  electric. 
In  an  instant  all  eyes  were  fixed  on  Billy.  Uproarious 
laughter  burst  forth  from  the  company,  in  the  midst  of 
which  the  students  made  a  rush  for  the  unhappy  fid- 
dler.  He  had  hardly  one  second's  time  given  him  to 
decide  what  to  do ;  but  before"  his  friends  reached  him 
he  had  bowed  himself,  and,  with  one  leap,  sprung  far 
under  the  table,  where  he  lay  flat  upon  the  floor,  with 
his  face  buried  in  his  hands,  convulsed  with  almost 
hysterical  laughter. 

"Haul  him  out!  haul  him  out!"  rose  on  all  sides,  and — 
But  just  here  I  must  permit  myself  a  philosophical 
reflection,  the  truth  of  which  will  be  readily  acknowl 
edged  by  all  publicans  and  sinners,  and  such  other  dis 
reputable  persons  as,  in  company  with  those  like-minded 
with  themselves,  have  looked  upon  the  wine  when  it 
was  red.  It  is  this :  That  fun  is  literally  intoxicating. 
At  a  wine-party  of  young  men,  for  example,  all  things 
will  go  on  smoothly  for  hours.  Conversation  is  going 
forward  pleasantly,  or  speeches  heard  with  decorum. 
A  pleasant  exhilaration  is  to  be  observed,  but  nothing 
more.  Then  there  will  arise,  by  chance,  some  one, 
who,  we  will  say,  shall  sing  a  capital  new  comic  song, 
calling  on  the  company  to  join  in  the  chorus.  At  the 
close  of  that  song  you  shall  wonder  what  has  happened 
to  everybody.  Why  does  your  right-hand  neighbor 
throw  his  arm  across  your  shoulder  and  call  you  old 
boy?  What  sudden  and  inexplicable  thirst  is  this  that 


204  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

has  seized  upon  the  man  on  your  left,  that  he  should 
be  calling  for  champagne  so  lustily  ?  What  is  that 
little  fellow,  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  doing  there, 
standing  up  in  his  chair,  and  waving  his  glass?  What 
strange  glow  is  this  that  has  flashed  through  your 
frame,  bearing  along  with  it  the  conviction  that  you 
are  all  glorious  fellows  and  having  a  glorious  time? 

"Haul  him  out!  haul  him  out!"  And  instantly  the 
students  dived,  pell-mell,  under  the  table.  It  would  be 
simply  impossible  to  describe  the  scene  that  followed. 
Under  the  table  there  was  an  inextricably  .entangled 
mass  of  vigorous  young  fellows,  some  on  their  heads, 
others  on  their  backs,  with  their  heels  in  the  air,  tug 
ging  away  with  might  and  main  at  each  other's  arms 
and  legs;  for  safety,  as  to  the  Greeks  at  Salamis,  had 
arisen  for  Jones  from  the  very  numbers  of  his  foes. 
-Meantime  the  table  danced  and  bumped  over  the  floor, 
rocking  and  tossing  above  this  human  earthquake; 
while  around  it  there  arose  such  peals  of  uproarious 
laughter  as  one  could  not  expect  to  h»ar  twice  in  a 
life-time. 

"  Mein  Gott !"  gasped  the  Herr,  falling  up  against  the 
piano,  and  wiping  his  streaming  eyes,  "  mein  Gott,  how 
many  funs  I" 

But  the  scene  did  not  last  half  so  long  as  I  have  been 
in  painting  it.  It  was  the  middle-aged  fat  gentleman 
that,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  put  an  end  to  all  thrs 
tumultuous  laughter,  or,  at  any  rate,  drew  its  brunt 
upon  himself. 

The  M.  A.  F.  Gr.,  as  above  stated,  was  tilting  back  in 
one"  of  my  grandfather's  slender  chairs,  in  front  of  the 
fire,  balancing  himself  on  tiptoe,  and  rocking  to  and 
fro  with  uncontrollable  laughter.  In  front  of  him  a 
student  was  backing  out  from  under  the  table,  all 
doubled  up,  his  head  not  yet  free  from  its  edge,  and 
tugging  away  manfully  at  the  leg  of  a  comrade.  Sud 
denly  the  foot  he  held  resigned  its  boot  to  his  keeping. 
The  M.  A.  F.  G.  could  hardly  tell,  afterwards,  what  it 
was  that,  like  a  battering-ram  of  old,  smote  him  at  the 
junction  of  vest  and  trousers ;  but  it  would  seem  to 
have  been  that  student's  head.  Up  flew  his  heels, 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  205 

nrash  went  the  chair,  and,  quicker  than  thought,  he 
was  sprawling  upon  his  back  in  the  midst  of  that  roar 
ing  hickory  fire.  A  dozen  hands  seized  and  dragged 
him  forth.  Jones  and  his  fiddle  were  forgotten;  and 
he  and  his  young  friends  emerged  from  under  the  table 
to  join  in  the  shouts  of  laughter  that  greeted  the  M.  A. 
F.  Gr.,  as  he  capered  briskly  about,  brushing  the  coals 
and  ashes  from  his  broad  back,  and  belabored  by  his 
friends,  who  were  assisting  him  in  saving  his  coat. 

"  Tausendteufels !  vot  for  a  shbree !"     And  the  Herr 
sank  exhausted  upon  the  piano-stool.* 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

"CHRISTMAS  gift!  young  ladies,  Christmas  gift!" 
chirped  Aunt  Phoebe,  bustling  briskly,  in  her  resplend 
ent  bandanna,  into  the  room,  and  courtesying  and 
bowing,  and  bowing  and  courtesying  in  turn,  to  the 
two  fair  heads  that  lay  deep-nestled  in  their  pillows. 

"Christmas  gift!"  modestly  echoed  the  handmaiden 
Milly,  her  sable  daughter,  modestly  bringing  up  the 
rear  and  showing  all  her  ivories. 

I  don't  think  the  relations  between  Virginia  master 
and  Virginia  slave  ever  appeared  in  a  gentler  or  more 
attractive  aspect  than  on  Christmas  mornings.  The 
way  the  older  and  more  privileged  domestics  had  of 
bursting  into  your  room  at  the  most  unearthly  hour, 
shouting  "Christmas  gift!  Christmas  gift!'  beaming 
with  smiles  and  brimful  of  good  nature,  was  enough  to 
warm  the  heart  of  a  Timon. 

"  "Well,  Aunt  Phoebe,"  said  one  of  the  drowsy  beauties, 
"you  have  caught  us." 

"  G-racious,  is  it  daybreak  yet  ?"  yawned  hazel-eyed 
Alice.  "  I  am  s-o-o-o  sleepy !"  And  turning  over  in 

*  It  will  doubtless  surprise  the  reader  to  be  informed  that  this  whole 
scene  actually  occurred,  substantially  as  I  have  described  it, — even  the 
last  seemingly  extravagant  detail  having  been  witnessed,  not  invented, 
by  the  author. 

18 


206  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

bed  with  a  toss,  she  closed  her  eyes  and  pouted  as 
though  she  had  much  to  endure. 

"  Daybreak  ?  Daybreak  f  Why,  Lor',  chile,  ain't  Polly 
done  put  on  her  bread  to  bake  ?  Git  up,  git  up,  jrou 
lazy  things !  Don't  you  know  all  de  beaux  is  up  and 
dressed,  and  a-settin'  round,  'most  a-dyin'  for  to  see 
you?" 

"  Poor  things,  are  they  ?"  mumbled  Alice  against  her 
pillow. 

"  To-be-eho,  to-be-sho  dey  is,"  reiterated  Aunt  Phoebe ; 
though,  as  a  veracious  historian,  I  must  let  the  reader 
know  that  it  was  a  pious  fraud  on  the  old  lady's  part, 
inspired  by  solicitude  ftxr  the  reputation  of  the  Elming- 
ton  breakfast;  for  not  one  of  the  sinners  had  stirred. 

"I  believe,"  added  Aunt  Phoebe,  observing  that 
Mary's  eyes  were  open, — "  I  believe,"  said  she,  going  up 
to  Alice  and  looking  down  upon  her  with  an  admiring 
smile,  "  dat  dis  is  de  sleepyheadedest  one  of  'em  all." 

Alice  gave  a  little  grunt,  if  the  expression  be  parlia 
mentary. 

"Makin*  'ten'  she  'sleep  now,"  said  Aunt  Phoebe, 
casting  knowing  nods  and  winks  at  Mary. 

"  When  she  is  awake,  Aunt  Phoebe,  she  is  wide  enough 
awake  for  you,  isn't  she?" 

"Lor'  bless  you,  honey,  I  b'lieve  you  ;  she  cert'n'y  do 
beat  all."  And  the  floor  trembled  beneath  the  good 
old  soul's  adipose  chuckle.  "  She  is  a  pretty  chile,  too, 
she  is  mum,"  continued  the  old  lady,  assuming,  with 
her  arms  akimbo,  a  critical  attitude.  Mary  rose  on  her 
elbow  to  observe  Alice's  countenance.  Her  lips  began 
to  twitch,  slightly,  under  this  double  gaze. 

"And  I  ain't  de  onliest  one  as  thinks  so,  neither," 
added  she,  tossing  back  her  head  with  a  look  of  tri 
umphant  sagacity. 

"  Who  is  it?  who  is  it  ?"  And  Mary  rose  and  sat  up 
in  bed. 

"Nebber  mind,  nebber  mind!"  replied  she,  with 
diplomatic  reserve.  "Nebber  mind  ;  Phoebe  ain't  been 
livin'  in  this  world  so  long  for  nothin'.  De  ole  nigger 
got  eyes  in  her  head,  and  she  can  see  out'n  'em,  too ; 
you  b'lieve  she  can,  my  honeys." 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  207 

"  Oh,  do  tell  me,  that's  a  good  Aunt  Phoebe !" 

"  Though  she  ain't  got  no  specs  on  her  nose."  And 
the  good  soul  threw  herself  back  and  gave  vent  to  a 
very  audible  h'yah,  b'yah,  h'yah. 

"Is — it — Uncle — Tom?"  droned  out  Alice,  in  an 
almost  inarticulate  murmur. 

"Now  jess  listen  at  dat  chile!  Ole  marster!  She 
know  better!  She  know  who  'tis  I'se  'spressin'  'bout 
f  all  she  a-layin'  d'yar  squinched  up  in  dat  bed,  making 
out  she  'sleep.  D'yar  now,  what  I  tell  you !"  exclaimed 
she,  as  Alice  sprang  suddenly  up  in  bed,  her  eyes  spark 
ling,  her  color  high,  her  dishevelled  hair  in  a  golden 
foam  about  her  temples. 

"'Sleep,  was  she!  h'yah,  h'yah,  h'yah!  "Well,  to-be- 
sho,  talk  'bout  de  young  gent'men  cert'n'y  were  de 
wakinest-up  talk  for  a  young  lady  dat  eber  dis  ole  nig 
ger  did  see.  To-be-sho!  To-be-sho  !  Lord  a' mussy !" 
added  she,  rocking  to  and  fro  and  clapping  on  her 
knees  with  both  hands,  as  Alice,  with  a  light  bound, 
sprang  into  the  middle  of  the  floor.  "  Bf  I  didn't  fotch 
her  clean  out  o'  bed !"  And  the  hilarious  old  domestic 
wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes  with  a  corner  of  her 
check  apron.  "  "Well,  now,  and  what  is  she  up  to  ?" 
added  she,  as  Alice  ran  nimbly  across  the  room  and 
opened  a  closet. 

"Aunt  Phoabe,"  said  Alice,  advancing  with  all  the 
solemnity  of  a  presentation  orator,  "  permit  me  to  offer 
you,  as  a  slight  testimonial  of  my  unbounded  esteem, 
this  trivial  memento.  "Within  this  package  is  a  dress, 
selected  especially  for  you  with  the  greatest  care,  at  the 
most  fashionable  store  in  Eichmond.  Wear  it,  and  rest 
assured  that  the  dress  will  not  become  you  more  than 
you  will  become  the  dress."  And  after  executing,  with 
her  tiny  little  feet,  a  variety  of  droll  capers,  all  the 
while  maintaining  a  look  of  preternatural  solemnity,  she 
placed  the  package  in  the  arms  of  the  amazed  Phoabe, 
with  a  tragic  extension  of  her  right  arm,  immediately 
thereafter  dropping  one  of  the  most  elaborately  gro 
tesque  courtesies  ever  seen  off  the  comic  stage. 

"  Lord  a'  mussy,  what  kind  (T  funny  lingo  is — " 

Squeak!    squeak!      Bang!    bang!     And   two   girls. 


208  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

but  partially  dressed,  tumbled  tumultuously  into  the 
room,  shrieking  and  slamming  the  door  after  them. 

The  chemists  tell  us  that  if  you  separate  two  gases 
by  a  membrane,  they  will  insist  upon  mingling ;  and, 
not  knowing  why  this  takes  place,  they  have  christened 
the  process  endosmose  and  exosmose.  Sociology  fur 
nishes  a  noteworthy  parallelism  in  the  endosmose  and 
exosmose  of  girls  dressing  for  breakfast  in  a  country 
house.  You  may  stow  as  many  as  you  will  into  as 
many  rooms  as  you  choose,  but  every  one  of  them 
will  find  her  way  into  every  other  room  before  her 
toilet  is  complete ;  and,  by  the  end  of  a  week,  the  rai 
ment  of  each  will  be  impartially  distributed  throughout 
the  several  chambers  allotted  to  their  sex.  Their 
movements  on  these  occasions  are  peculiar.  "  Where 
is  that  other  stocking  of  mine?  Oh,  I  know!"  And 
she  approaches  the  door  of  her  room,  opens  it  a  couple 
of  inches,  and  warily  reconnoitres  with  eye  and  ear. 
Seizing  an  opportune  moment  when  the  coast  is  clear, 
she  darts  like  a  meteor  across  the  hall,  and  into  a 
neighboring  room — 

"  I  say,  girls,  have  any  of  you  seen  a  stray  stock 
ing?"  etc.,  etc. 

And  so,  upon  the  present  occasion,  a  pair  of  beauties 
unadorned  came  bounding  into  the  room,  breaking  in 
upon  Alice's  impromptu  tableau.  This,  however,  they 
had  not  time  to  remark ;  but  wheeling  round,  as  soon 
as  they  were  safe  within  the  door,  they  opened  it  an 
inch  or  two,  stuck  their  several  noses  into  the  opening, 
and  uttered  to  some  person  in  the  ball  a  few  words  of 
saucy  triumph.  Mr.  Whacker  had,  in  fact,  stepped  into 
the  hall  just  as  they  were  crossing  it ;  and,  seeing  them, 
had  given  chase.  Having  made  a  few  mocking  faces 
at  the  old  gentleman,  and  shut  the  door  with  another 
slam  and  another  pair  of  pretty  shrieks  when  he  made 
as  though  he  would  follow  them,  they  turned  to  their 
friends. 

"  Did  you  hear  it,  girls  ?';  began  one  of  the  intruders. 

"Hear  what?" 

"The  music." 

"  The  music  ?    What  music  ?" 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  209 

"  What!  did  you,  too,  sleep  through  it  all?" 

"  What !  was  there  a  serenade,  and  you  did  not 
wake  us?  It  was  really  mean  of  you!" 

If  ouch  is  masculine,  really  mean  is  feminine. 

"Bless  you,  we  heard  never  a  note  of  it  ourselves!" 

"A  note  of  what?  Who  heard  it,  and  what  was 
there  to  hear?  What  enigma  is  this?" 

"  Why,  hasn't  Aunt  Phcebe  told  you  ?" 

"  Told  us  what  ?  What  is  there  to  tell,  Aunt  Phoebe, 
and  why  have  you  not  told  us  already  ?" 

"  Bless  your  sweet  souls  un  you,  I  ain't  had  time," 
said  old  Phoebe,  bowing  and  courtesying  all  round  ;  while 
Milly  grinned  ungainly  in  her  wake. 

"You  see,  I  jess  stepped  in  on  dese  two  young 
ladies  fust,  and  cotched  'em  Christmas  gift,  and  very 
nice  presents  they  had,  all  ready  and  awaitin'  for  ole 
Phcebe," — and  she  courtesied  to  each, — "and  for  Milly, 
too,  bless  their  sweet  souls  un  'em,  jess  like  dey  knowed 
Phcebe  was  a-comin'  to  cotch  'em, — bless  de  pretty  little 
honeys ! — and  so  says  I,  says  I  to  myself,  says  I,  I'll 
jess  step  in  and  catch  dese  two  fust ;  and  so,  I  creeps 
up  to  de  door,  I  did,  soft  as  a  cat,  I  did,  and  turns  de 
knob,  easy-like,  and  I  flings  open  de  door  and  '  Christ 
mas  gift'  says  I,  jess  so,  says  I,  and  dey  had  de  most 
loveliest  presents  all  wrapped  up  and  a-waiting  for 
Phcebe,  jess  as  I  tell  you,  and  for  Milly  too,  and  I 
dunno  what  Milly  gwine  do  wid  all  de  things  she  done 
got,  and  dey  is  all  nice  and  one  ain't  no  prettier  dan  de 
others,  and  Phcebe  is  uncommon  obleeged  to  one  and 
all," — and  "she  gave  a  duck  in  front  of  each, — "  and 
Milly  too.  Gal,  what  you  a-standin'  dere  for,  wid  your 
fingers  in  your  mouth,  like  somebody  ain't  got  no  sense  ? 
Ain't  you  gwine  to  make  no  motion  ?  Is  dat  de  way  I 
done  fotch  you  up,  and  you  b'long  to  de  quality,  too  ? 
Dese  young  niggers  is  too  much — too  much  for  Phcebe !" 

It  would  be  going  too  far,  perhaps,  to  say  that  Milly 
blushed ;  but  she  managed  to  look  abashed,  and  con 
trived  to  appease  her  mother  by  sundry  uncouth  wrig- 
glings,  meant  to  express  her  thanks. 

"  Howsomedever,  as  I  was  sayin',  year  in  and  year 
out  ole  marster  have  had  a  heap  o'  young  ladiea 
o  18* 


210  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

a-spendin'  Christmas  at  Elmin'ton, — fust  one  Christ 
mas  and  den  another;  but  ef  ever  Phoebe  saw  more 
lovelier — " 

"Oh,  Aunt  Phoebe!" 

"  Fo'  de  Lord,  I  hope  de  crabs  may  eat  me  ef  tain't 
so,  jess  as  I  tell  you.  Why,  Lor'  bless  my  soul,  ain't  I 
hear  all  the  young  gent'men  say  de  same?"  [general 
satisfaction.]  "On  course  I  has!  I  wish  I  may  drop 
dead  if  I  don't  b'lieve  ole  marster  must  a'  picked  Eich- 
mond  over  pretty  close." 

The  merriment  elicited  by  this  remark  gave  such 
pause  to  the  old  lady's  eloquence  that  Alice  was  enabled 
to  put  in  a  word. 

"  But,  Aunt  Phoebe,  tell  me  about  the  serenade?" 

Phoebe  looked  puzzled. 

"  Tell  us  about  the  gentlemen's  serenade  last  night  ?" 

"  Lor',  chile,  ole  marster  don't  have  none  o'  dem  high- 
fangled  Eichmond  doin's  'bout  him ;  thar  warn't  nothin' 
but  apple-toddy  and  eggnog." 

"But  the  music,  Aunt  Phoebe?"  persisted  Alice,  re 
pressing  a  smile. 

"De  music!"  ejaculated  Phoebe ;  "de music!  Didn't 
you  hear  it  through  de  window  ?  You  didn't  ?"  And 
she  clasped  her  hands,  shut  her  eyes,  and  began  rock 
ing  to  and  fro,  her  head  nodding  all  the  while  with  cer 
tain  peculiar  little  jerks,  "Umgh-umgh! — umgh-umghl 
— umgh-umgh !"  This  inexplicable  dumb-show  she  kept 
up  some  time.  "  Don't  talk,  chillun  ;  don't  talk — umgh- 
umgh  ! — don't  talk, — I  axed  Dick  dis  mornin',  says  I, 
Dick,  says  I,  huckum,  }TOU  reckon,  nobody'never  told 
ole  marster  as  how  Mr.  Smith  drawed  sich  a  bow,  says 
I?" 

"Mr.  Smith!"  exclaimed  Alice,  looking  at  the  two 
girls  with  amazement  in  her  wide  eyes. 

The  two  girls  nodded. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Smith  was  de  very  one.  Phoebe  never 
did  hear  de  like,  never  in  her  born  days.  Sich  a 
scrapin'  and  a  scratching  and  sich  a  runnin'  up  and 
down  a  fiddle,  Phoebe  never  did  see,  though  she  thought 
Bhe  had  seen  fiddlers  in  her  time." 

And  she  went  on  and  gave  such  an  account  of  the 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  211 

performance  as  3*011  would  not  find  in  any  musical  jour 
nal.  What  did  she  know,  poor  soul,  about  technique, 
for  example, — or  breadth  of  phrasing,  for  the  matter 
of  that  ? 

"Mr.  Smith!"  reiterated  Alice,  with  stark  incre 
dulity. 

"  Dat  was  de  very  one !" 

Alice  looked  from  one  to  another  of  the  girls. 

"  Did  you  ever !"  looked  they  in  turn. 

"  I  thought  I  should  a'  died  a-laughin'  at  young  Marso 
Bill}7  Jones.  When  I  seed  him  and  all  dem  young 
gent'men  a-scufflin'  and  a-bumpin'  under  dat  table,  oh, 
Lord,  says  I,  how  long !  But  when  Marse  Ealeigh,  he 
upsot  into  de  fire,  thinks  I  to  myself,  my  legs  surely  is 
gwine  for  to  gin  way  under  me ! — but  Marse  Charley, 
he  cert'n'y  do  beat  all.  I  reckon  all  you  young  mis- 
tisses  was  a-thinkin'  he  had  done  gone  and  cut  be  fin 
ger  when  he  let  de  knife  fall  and  went  for  a  rag  ?  I 
be  bound  you  did ;  but  Lor'  me,  nobody  don't  never 
know  what  Marse  Charley  is  up  to.  Dey  tell  me  as 
how  he  knowed  all  along  'bout  Mr.  Smith  playin'  on 
de  fiddle ;  but  he  never  let  on  even  to  ole  marster ;  and 
I  heard  'em  all  a-questionin'  him  'bout  it ;  but  Marso 
Charley,  he  jess  laugh  ancKlaugh,  sort  o'  easy-like,  and 
never  tell  'em  nothin'." 

"  Mr.  Frobisher  knew  what  a  great  musician  Mr. 
Smith  was  ?"  asked  Alice,  her  incredulity  beginning  to 
give  way. 

"Jess  so,  Miss  Alice,  jess  so.  Why,  Dick  says  he 
really  do  b'lieve  into  he  soul  dat  Mr.  Smith  b'longs  to  a 
show  or  somethin'  or  other;  and  what  Dick  don't  know 
'bout  dem  kind  o'  mysteries  ain't  worth  knowin'.  Why, 
didn't  Dick  drive  de  carriage  down  to  Yorktowh  when 
dey  give  de  dinner  to  Ginrul  Laughyet,  and  hear  de 
brass  band  play  and  all?  Great  musicianer?  I  b'lieve 
you !  Umgh-umgh !  To-be-sho !  To-be-sho !" 

"Well!"  said  Alice,  dropping  down  into  a  chair  with 
a  bump.  "  Well!"  repeated  she,  with  emphasis. 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  Never  mind !"  said  she,  tossing  her  head  as  she 
pulled  on  a  stocking.  "  I'll  make  him  pay  for  it !"  she 


212  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

added,  jerking  on  the  other  with  a  rather  superfluous 
vigor;  and  then,  discontinuing  her  toilet,  she  dropped 
her  two  hands  upon  her  knees  and  gazed  at  vacancy 
for  a  moment. 

"  What  is  it?  What  is  it?"  cried  the  girls,  as  they 
saw,  gradually  diffusing  itself  over  her  flushed  counte 
nance,  an  intensely  quizzical  smile.  For  her  only 
answer  Alice  threw  herself  into  an  exceedingly  comic 
attitude  of  exaggerated  stiffness,  and  began  playing 
upon  an  imaginary  piano,  tum-tumming,  in  the  most 
ludicrous  way,  a  commonplace  air  much  in  vogue  at 
the  time. 

"Oh,  what  geese  we  have  made  of  ourselves!"  cried 
the  girls. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Alice,  "  here  have  we,  all  this  time, 
been  playing  our  little  jiggetty-jigs  before  him,  and 
he  affecting  not  to  know  Yankee  Doodle  from  Hail 
Columbia !"  And  she  tossed  off  a  few  more  bars  with 
inimitable  drollery.  "  Oh,  it  is  too  funny  !"  cried  she, 
springing  up,  her  sense  of  humor  overriding  her  sense 
of  chagrin ;  and  from  that  time  till  the  party  were 
ready  to  descend  to  the  breakfast-room,  she  was  in  one 
of  her  regular  gales,  causing  the  upper  regions  of  the 
house  to  resound  with  incessant  peals  of  laughter. 

"  Why,  you  dear,  crazy  little  goose,"  said  one  of  the 
girls  at  last,  "  the  breakfast-bell  rang  fifteen  minutes 
ago,  and  all  the  rest  of  us  are  dressed,  and  there  you 
are  still  in  a  most  unpresentable  costume." 

"  There,  then,  I'll  be  good,"  said  Alice,  cutting  short 
some  caper;  and  instantly  assuming  the  busiest  air,  she 
trotted  briskly  about  the  room,  laying  hands  first  on 
one  article  of  dress  and  then  on  another,  contriving, 
somehow,  to  combine  with  a  maximum  of  ostenta 
tious  activity  a  minimum  of  actual  progress  in  her 
toilet. 

"Here,  girls,"  said  Mary,  "I'll  hold  her  while  the 
rest  of  you  dress  her." 

So  saying,  she  seized  her,  and  in  a  moment  the  sub 
missive  victim  was  surrounded  by  as  lovely  a  band  of 
lady's  maids  as  one  could  wish  to  see.  First  one 
brought  her — but,  somehow,  there  seems  to  arise  like 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  213 

an  exhalation,  just  here,  a  mysterious  haze,  impene 
trable  to  my  bachelor  eyes. 

"There  now,  girls,  you  need  not  wait  for  me.  I 
shall  be  down  in  a  moment.  Go  down.  No,  I  won't 
have  you  wait  for  me !  Aunt  Phoebe  will  never  forgive 
you  if  you  let  the  muffins  get  cold.  Moreover,  I  wish 
to  add  to  my  toilet,  in  private,  a  few  killing  touches, 
of  which  I  alone  possess  the  secret.  Maidens,  retire  !" 
And  with  outstretched,  dimpled  arm,  she  pointed  to  the 
door.  Thus  dismissed,  they  soon  found  their  way  to 
the  breakfast-table ;  and,  as  was  to  be  expected,  there 
immediately  arose  a  very  animated  talk  upon  the  events 
of  the  preceding  evening. 

A  Virginia  breakfast,  in  those  days,  was  not  wont  to 
be  a  lugubrious  affair;  but  I  think  that  this  was,  per 
haps,  the  brightest  that  I  remember.  The  events  of 
the  previous  evening  were  told  and  retold  for  the 
benefit  of  the  ladies.  Young  Jones  was  invited  to  de 
scribe  the  emotions  which  caused  him  to  dive  under  the 
table,  the  middle-aged  fat  gentleman  got  what  sym 
pathy  was  his  due,  when,  just  as  each  girl  had,  for  the 
twentieth  time,  exclaimed  that  it  was  "  really  mean," 
Alice  stood  upon  the  threshold. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

No  one  had  heard  her  approaching  footsteps.  The 
charming  little  actress  stood  there,  her  arms  akimbo, 
her  head  tossed  back,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  Don  with 
the  blackest  look  she  could  command.  To  the  saluta 
tions  of  the  company,  to  my  grandfather's  request  that 
she  be  seated,  she  deigned  no  reply ;  and  suddenly 
whisking  herself  to  the  side  of  the  table,  she  poured  in 
upon  the  Don  a  still  more  deadly  fusillade  of  fierce 
glances  at  short  range ;  then,  as  the  only  unoccupied 
seat  was  next  his,  she  advanced  to  take  it,  but  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye  her  whole  manner  had  changed, 
though  why  it  changed  I  cannot  explain,  nor  she  any 


214  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

more  than  I,  doubtless.  I  record  facts,  merely.  An 
she  went  mincing  around  the  table  to  reach  her  scat, 
she  suddenly  became  converted  into  a  prim  and  ab 
surdly  affected  old  maid.  Her  manner  of  shaking  out 
her  napkin  would  have  been  alone  sufficient  to  convulse 
the  company.  In  fact,  for  a  time,  all  breakfasting,  con 
sidered  as  a  practical  business,  came  to  an  end.  The 
very  streams  of  hot  muffins,  waffles,  and  buckwheat 
cakes  stood  still,  in  presence  of  this  joyous  spirit,  as  of 
old  the  river  forgot  to  flow  when  Orpheus  touched  his 
lyre.  I  can  see  her  now,  it  seems  to  me,  nibbling  at 
the  merest  crumb  upon  a  prong  of  her  fork,  sipping 
her  coffee  with  dainty  affectation,  ogling  the  gentlemen 
with  inimitable  drollery. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Smith,"  said  she,  suddenly  turning  to  the 
Don  and  dropping  the  role  she  had  assumed  for  one  of 
the  most  artless  simplicity, — "  I  am  so  delighted  to  hear 
that  you  are  a  musician.  Do  you  know,  I  had  an  idea 
that  you  knew  little  of  music,  and  cared  less ;  so  that 
— do  you  know  ? — we  girls  actually  feared  that  our 
playing  bored  you?  Indeed  we  did!"  she  added,  with 
emphasis,  and  looking  up  into  his  face  with  an  ingenu 
ous  smile.  "Didn't  we,  girls?  But  it  is  such  a  nice 
surprise  to  find  you  were  only  pretending  to  be  an  igno 
ramus.  Why,  it  was  only  yesterday  morning  that  I 
was  explaining  to  you  the  difference  between  the  major 
and  the  minor  keys! — and  you  knew  all  the  time!" 
And  she  gave  a  delicious,  childish  little  laugh.  "  It  is 
such  a  comfort  to  know  that  you  have  been  appreci 
ating  our  music  all  this  time.  Oh,  Mr.  Smith !"  ex 
claimed  she,  infantile  glee  dancing  in  her  hazel  eyes, 
"  I  have  one  piece  that  I  have  never  played  for  you. 
I'll  play  it  immediately  after  breakfast.  It  is  called — let 
me  see — "  And  with  eyes  upturned  and  fingers  wan 
dering  up  and  down  the  table,  she  seemed  to  search  for 
the  title  of  the  composition.  "  Oh !"  cried  she,  gush 
ingly,  and  throwing  herself  forward  in  front  of  the  Don, 
and  turning  her  head  so  as  to  pour  her  joyous  smile 
straight  into  his  eyes, — "oh,  it  is  called  the  Jenny 
Lind  Polka ;"  and  she  beamed  upon  our  artist  as  though 
awaiting  an  answering  thrill.  "  What!  You  never 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  215 

heard  it  ?  No  ?"  (strumming  on  the  table.)  "  Tump-ee! 
Jenny  tump-ee!  Lind  polka?  Tump-ee,  tump-ee, 
tump-ee,  teedle-ee — possible?"  (with  a  look  of  intense 
surprise).  "Tump-ee,  teedle-ee,  tump-ee,  teedle-ee — 
No?  W-h-y,  g-i-r-1-s  !  Second  part :  Teedum,  teedle- 
um,  tee-dum,  teedle-um — you  don't — teedum  teedle-um 
— recognize  it?  Tee-dum,  teedle-um  turn,  turn,  turn — 
You  are  quite  sure  ?  Tump-ee,  tump-ee — Quite  ?  You 
shall  have  it  immediately  after  bi'eakfast — tump-ee, 
tump-ee."  And  apparently  unable  to  restrain  her  im 
patience,  she  recommenced  the  strain,  and  rattled  it  off 
with  an  ever-increasing  brio,  till,  at  last,  as  though 
transported  with  enthusiasm,  she  pushed  back  her  chair 
and  launched  forth  into  a  pas  seul,  tripping  round  the 
table,  her  dress  spread  out  with  thumb  and  forefinger 
of  either  hand,  the  graceful  swaying  of  her  lithe  figure 
contrasting  comically  with  the  tin-pan  tone  she  con 
trived  to  give  her  voice,  and  the  ludicrous  precision  of 
her  steps ;  but,  changeful  as  the  surface  of  a  summer 
lake,  she  had  hardly  made  the  circuit  of  the  table  once, 
when  she  laid  her  dimpled  cheek  upon  her  rosy  fingers, 
her  rosy  fingers  interlaced  upon  the  shoulder  of  an  im 
aginary  partner,  and  stilling  her  own  voice,  and  as 
though  drunk  with  the  music  of  a  mighty  orchestra, 
she  floated  about  the  room,  with  closed  eyes,  in  a  kind 
of  swoon. 

Just  at  this  juncture,  there  chanced  to  be  standing 
near  the  outer  dining-room  door  our  friend  Zip.  Zip — 
but,  as  these  were  Christmas  times,  let  us  call  him 
Moses — stood  there,  with  hanging  jaw,  and  rolling  his 
rather  popped  eyes,  first  towards  his  chief,  and  then  in 
the  direction  of  the  table,  in  manifest  perplexity  as  to 
the  disposition  to  be  made  of  a  plate  of  waffles  he  had 
just  brought  from  the  kitchen.  Confused  by  the  mer 
riment,  he  failed  to  observe  the  fair  Alice  bearing  down 
upon  him.  Away  went  the  waffles  over  the  floor. 
"That's  the  way  it  goes!"  said  Alice  to  the  Don,  with 
out  even  a  glance  at  the  waffles  ;  "  and  you  have  never 
heard  it  before?"  asked  she,  resuming  her  seat  by  his 
Bide.  In  fact,  the  most  amusing  feature  of  her  entire 
performance  was  how  utterly  unconscious  she  seemed 


216  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

that  any  one  heard  or  saw  her  save  the  new-found 
artist.  Every  word,  every  look,  every  gesture  seemed 
designed  solely  for  his  edification.  I  shall  not  permit 
myself  to  describe  the  deportment  of  the  company 
while  Alice  was  on  her  high  horse;  for  Lord  Chester 
field  has  pronounced  laughter,  save  in  children,  vulgar. 
And  so,  I  shall  declare  breakfast  over,  and  allow  our 
merry  friends  to  betake  themselves  whither  fancy 
impels. 

"  What  kind  of  a  day  is  it?"  inquires  one;  and  the 
whole  party  soon  find  themselves  scattered  in  groups 
on  the  southern  veranda. 

It  was  one  of  those  enchantingly  beautiful  winter 
mornings,  never  witnessed,  perhaps,  out  of  America. 
The  ground  was  frozen  hard ;  while  every  tuft  of  dry 
grass,  every  twig  in  view,  bedecked  with  hoar-frost, 
danced  and  flashed  and  sparkled  beneath  the  dazzling 
yet  hazy  sunlight,  with  the  mingled  glow  of  opals  and 
of  diamonds.  And  what  an  atmosphere !  Still,  but 
not  stagnant;  for  behold  the  dreamy  undulations  of 
that  slender  column  of  smoke,  so  peacefully  rocking 
above  yonder  whitewashed  cabin  I  Cold,  not  chill ; 
descending  into  the  lungs  as  a  stimulating  and  refresh 
ing  bath  ;  clear,  but  not  colorless ;  tinted,  rather, — nay, 
transfigured,  with  the  translucent  exhalations  of  name 
less  gems, — such  was  the  air  that  floated  over  lawn  and 
river  on  that  bright  Christmas  morning. 

It  was  a  day  too  fine  to  be  lost ;  and  a  vote  being 
taken,  it  was  decided  that  a  walk  should  come  first. 
And  forth  the  joyous  procession  sallied,  Alice  and  young 
Jones — kindred  spirits — taking  the  lead.  Let  them  go 
their  way,  rejoicing  in  their  youth ;  and,  while  await 
ing  their  return,  I  shall,  with  the  consent  of  the  con 
temporaneous  reader,  say  a  word  or  two  about  Virginia 
society,  as  it  was,  to  that  reader  of  the  future  for  whoso 
edification  these  slight  sketches  are  drawn ;  to  wit,  my 
great-great-great-etc.  grandson. 

In  my  Alice,  then,  I  have  endeavored  to  place  before 
you  and  future  generations  a  type  taken  bodily  from 
the  joyous,  careless  life  of  ante-bellum  days.  Many  of 
my  contemporaries  will  recognize  her  and  her  merry- 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  217 

glancing  hazel  eyes.  My  friends — all  Richmond,  all 
Virginia,  in  fact — will  know  the  original  of  the  picture, — 
each  one  his  own  original.  But  the  truth  is,  in  paint 
ing  the  portrait  of  our  jolly  little  Alice  I  have  aimed 
at  more  than  representing  the  features  of  a  charming 
girl.  I  have  striven  to  place  before  you  a  marked 
phase  of  Yirginia  society, — its  freedom.  It  was  this 
which  gave  it  a  charm  all  its  own,  and  it  would  be  in 
teresting,  did  it  not  lead  me  too  far  from  the  path  of 
my  narrative,  to  point  out  the  contrasts  it  affords  to 
English  society.  Both  eminently  aristocratic,  it  is  sin 
gular  that  the  former  should  have  been  so  unshackled, 
so  unconventional,  so  free,  while  its  prototype  is,  with 
out  doubt,  the  most  uncomfortable,  the  most  stifling 
tyranny  that  men  and  women — and  men  and  women, 
too,  of  one  of  the  grandest  races  of  all  time — ever  vol 
untarily  submitted  to.  And,  strangely  enough,  Yir 
ginia  is  almost  the  only  one  of  the  United  States  where 
anything  like  a  fair  type  of  the  mother  society  has  sur 
vived.  The  English  gentlemanlike  the  Virginian,  has 
his  home  in  the  country ;  but  this  is  true,  in  this  coun 
try  it  may  almost  be  said,  of  Virginia  gentlemen  alone ; 
if,  at  least,  the  terms  be  not  understood  in  a  sense  too 
literally  geographical.  The  Southern  planter  was  wont 
to  betake  himself  to  New  Orleans  in  winter,  with  half 
his  cotton  crop  in  his  pocket,  reserving  the  other 
half  for  Saratoga  and  the  North  when  summer  came. 
Charleston  was  the  Mecca  of  the  South  Carolinian ; 
while  the  wealthy  citizen  of  New  York,  if  he  had  his 
villa  on  the  Hudson,  retired  to  it  rather  to  avoid  than 
to  seek  society,  or  else,  still  unsated  with  the  joys  of 
city  life  (the  detestation  of  your  true  John  Bull),  even 
when  driven  out  of  town  by  the  dust  of  summer  and  the 
glare  of  wall  and  of  pavement,  he  hastens  to  Newport, 
there  to  swelter  through  the  dog-days  in  all  the  pomp 
of  full  dress  and  fashionable  fooleries.  Some  stray  lord 
has  mentioned  in  his  hearing — or  some  one  who  has 
seen  a  stray  lord — that  summer  is  the  London  season 
(none  other  being  possible  in  that  climate),  and  straight 
way  he  trims  his  whiskers  a  la  mutton-chop  and  buys 
a  book  of  the  peerage j  nor  suspects  that  the  more 
K:  19 


218  THE  STORY   OF  DON  MIFF. 

closely  you  imitate  an  Englishman  the  less  you  re 
semble  him, — one  of  the  strongest  characteristics  of 
that  great  race  being  their  disdainful  refusal  to  imitate 
any  other.  * 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THREE  o'clock  was,  in  those  days,  the  dinner-hour 
of  the  Virginia  gentry;  but  my  grandfather  and 
Charley,  being  but  two  in  family,  and  not  caring  to  bo 
bothered  with  three  meals  a  day,  had  gotten  into  tho 
habit  of  dining  at  five ;  and  so,  shortly  before  that 
hour,  on  this  Christmas  day,  all  the  company,  having 
made  their  toilets,  had  assembled  in  the  drawing-room. 
But,  as  far  back  as  I  can  remember,  I  don't  think  that 
Aunt  Polly  had  ever  let  us  have  our  Christmas  dinner 
before  six.  Aunt  Polly  could  never  explain  this  fact 
to  our  satisfaction.  "  Ready,"  she  once  made  reply  to 
my  boyish  impatience,  "  no,  dat  tain't,  How  you  gwino 
'spect  de  fire  to  cook  all  dese  things  quick  like  a  few 
things?  Jess  look  at  dat  potl  I  set  it  d'yar  to  bilo 
and  d'yar  it  sets  a-simperin'  and  a-simperin'  like  people 
never  did  want  to  eat  nothin'." 

"  In  course,"  broke  in  old  Dick,  with  stately  pro 
fundity,  "  a  rolling  stone  never  gathers  no  moss." 

"  Git  out  o'  my  way,  Dick,  and  lemme  lift  de  led  off 
dat  d'yar  skillet.  Moss!  Moss!  Who  talkin'  'bout 
moss,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  And  all  de  white  folks  a-waitin' 
for  dinner!"  And  she  mopped  her  face  with  her 
Bleeve. 

"  I  meant  to  rubserve,"  rejoined  Dick,  with  offended 
dignity,  "  dat  a  watched  pot  never  biles." 

On  the  present  occasion  Mrs.  Carter  gave  the  com 
pany  an  intimation  that  they  had  an  hour  on  their 
hands. 

"Why  not  adjourn  to  the  hall,"  suggested  Mr. 
Whacker,  "and  while  away  the  time  with  some 
music  ?" 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  219 

The  company  rose  with  enthusiasm.  "  Oh,  how 
nice !"  And  all  the  girls  clapped  their  hands. 

"  Mr.  Frobisher,"  said  Jones,  dryly,  "  if  your  finger 
be  sufficiently  healed,  suppose  you  lead  off.  As  for  me 
— I — have  a  sore  throat." 

"Ah,  that  poor  finger!"  cried  Alice,  "how  remiss 
in  us  girls  not  to  have  inquired  after  its  health !  How 
is  the  dear  little  thing  ?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?"  inquired  Charley,  with  an 
innocent  look ;  but  his  hands  had  somehow  found  their 
way  behind  his  back. 

"  How  is  your  cut  finger  ?" 

"My  cut  finger?" 

"  Yes,  y-o-u-r  c-u-t  f-i-n-g-e-r !" 

"  M-y  c-u-t  f-i-n-g-e-r  ?"  And  he  mimicked  her  im 
perious  little  gestures;  at  the  same  time  looking  from 
face  to  face  with  a  sort  of  dazed  air. 

"  Isn't  this  a  sort  of  conundrum  ?" 

"No;  show  me  your  hand." 

"  There,"  said  he,  holding  out  his  right  hand, — "  there 
is  my  hand, — you  may  h-h-h-h-ave  it  if  you  want  it." 
And  immediately,  as  though  he  had  said  more  than  he 
had  intended,  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 

"Nonsense!"  said  she,  coloring  slightly.  "Why  do 
you  tantalize  people  so?  The  other!" 

"  The  other?     There  they  are,  both  of  them." 

"  But  which  is  the  finger  that  you  cut  ?" 

""Who  said  I  c-c-c-ut  my  finger?" 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say — "  began  Jones ;  but  shouts 
of  laughter  interrupted  his  question,  and,  turning  to 
a  group  of  students,  he  pursed  up  his  mouth  and  emitted 
a  long  but  inaudible  whistle.  Charley,  meanwhile,  was 
assailed  with  questions  by  the  girls  as  to  what  made 
him  suspect  that  the  Don  was  a  musician ;  but  he 
passed,  smiling  and  silent,  towards  the  western  door, 
and  he  stood  there  bowing  the  ladies  out  on  their  way 
to  the  Hall. 

"Fiend  in  human  shape!"  breathed  Alice,  as  she 
passed  out,  threatening  him  with  upraised  forefinger. 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?"  asked  he,  in  a  hurried, 
half-choking  whisper, — the  idiot! 


220  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

The  enchantress  stopped,  and  slowly  turning  her 
head,  as  she  stood  with  one  foot  upon  the  pavement 
and  the  other  on  the  step  above,  turning  her  head,  all 
gilded  and  glorious  with  the  mellow  rays  of  the  setting 
sun,  gave  him  one  Parthian  glance,  half  saucy,  half 
serious,  and  bounded  forward  to  overtake  her  compan 
ions.  Charley,  with  his  eyes  riveted  upon  her  retiring 
figure,  stood  motionless  till  she  had  disappeared  within 
the  Hall.  Did  be  hope — the  simpleton — for  another  look? 

The  Don  and  I  were  lingering  on  the  Hall  steps  when 
Charley  came  up. 

"  By  the  way,  how  on  earth  did  you  divine  that  I 
plaved  on  the  violin  ?  You  have  no  objection  to  telling 
me?" 

"  None  in  the  world.  There  was  no  divination  about 
the  matter.  When  you  were  knocked  senseless  by  the 
runaway  horses,  I  helped  to  undress  you.  On  remov 
ing  your  coat  a  paper  fell  out  of  the  breast-pocket,  and 
I  remarked,  on  picking  it  up,  that  it  was  a  sheet  of 
manuscript  music." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  remember, — a  little  waltz  that  I  had 
composed  that  day." 

"I  didn't  know  who  had  compo-po-po-sed  it,"  re 
plied  Charley,  dryly,  "  but  I  have  m-m-m-ade  it  a  rule 
all  rn-m-my  life  never  to  play  before  people  who  went 
about  the  country,  getting  run  over,  with  m-m-m-anu- 
script  m-m-m-u-sic  in  their  pockets." 

"And  you  would  seem,"  added  the  Don,  smiling, 
"  never  to  have  mentioned  your  suspicions  ?" 

"Not  to  me,  certainly,"  said  I. 

"  Not  to  you,  nor  to  Uncle  Tom ;  not  even  to  Jones." 

"Not  even  to  Jones!"  repeated  the  Don,  laughing 
heartily.  "Thanks,"  added  he,  suddenly  seizing 
Charley's  hand, — "  thanks."  And  he  sprang  lightly  into 
the  room. 

"  Charley,  you  are  a  rare  one.  The  idea  of  your  not 
letting  the  old  man  or  myself  into  the  secret." 

"  W-e-1-1,  y-e-s,"  said  he,  abstractedly.  He  seemed  in 
no  hurry  to  enter  the  room,  holding  me  back  by  a  firm 
though  unconscious  grasp  upon  my  arm.  "  I  say, 
Jack,"  said  he,  in  a  confidential  tone.  And  he  stopped. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  221 

"Well?" 

"Isn't  she  a  stunner?"     And  he  nodded  towards  a 
group  of  girls  who  stood  about  the  piano. 
"  Which  one  ?" 
He  dug  me  in  the  ribs  and  passed  into  the  Hall 


CHAPTEE  XXXY. 

WITH  the  assembling  of  our  friends  in  the  Hall  on 
that  Christmas  afternoon  our  story  enters  upon  a  new 
phase, — one,  too,  in  which  Mary  Rolfe  will  figure  more 
prominently  than  she  has  hitherto  done.  Of  her  friend 
Alice — Alice  with  the  merry-glancing  hazel  eyes — the 
reader  has,  I  trust,  a  tolerably  clear  conception.  The 
picture  we  have  of  her  is  a  pleasant  one,  I  think, — a 
picture  drawn  not  by  me,  but  by  herself.  But  from 
Mary — shy,  reserved,  and  shrinking  as  she  is — we  can 
expect  no  such  boon.  Her  portrait  must  be  my  work. 

And  first,  I  must  repeat  that  she  was  Alice's  closest 
friend.  When  their  acquaintance  began,  it  would  be 
hard  to  say.  Their  mothers  before  them  were  warm 
friends,  and  had  been  so  fortunate  as  to  have  their 
homes,  after  marriage,  separated  only  by  one  of  Rich 
mond's  peaceful  streets ;  so  that,  even  in  long  clothes, 
Alice  and  Mary,  introduced  by  their  respective  nurses, 
had  contracted  such  intimacy  as  might  be  gained  by 
a  reciprocal  fumbling  of  each  other's  noses  and  the 
poking  of  pink  fingers  into  blinking  eyes.  Across  this 
street,  a  few  years  later,  these  little  crafts  had  made 
voyages  innumerable ;  beneath  its  branching  trees 
trundled  their  unsteady  hoops,  and  along  its  not  very 
crowded  sidewalk  had  swung  proudly,  hand  in  hand, 
one  bright  October  day,  going  to  their  first  school.  And 
ever  since  that  day  they  have  been  going,  so  to  speak, 
hand  in  hand.  One  circumstance,  no  doubt,  that  con 
tributed  much  to  binding  their  hearts  together,  was  the 
fact  that  they  were  only  daughters  ;  so  that  each  was, 
as  it  were  the  adopted  sister  of  the  other.  But  what, 

19* 


222  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

above  all  things,  as  I  have  suggested  elsewhere,  ren 
dered  a  warm  friendship  between  them  both  possible 
and  lasting,  was  the  singularly  sharp  contrasts  presented 
by  their  characters.  Two  girls  more  radically  unlike 
in  disposition  it  would  be  hardly  possible  to  find. 

Now,  among  other  traits  of  Mary's  character,  to 
tally  lacking  in  Alice,  was  one  of  importance  for  my 
purposes,  in  that  it  was  destined  to  make  her  play  a 
considerable  role  amid  the  scenes  to  be  pictured  in  the 
ensuing  pages.  It  was  a  trait  that  goes  by  different 
names.  According  to  some  of  her  acquaintance, — kin 
dred  spirits  they  were, — Mary  was  full  of  enthusiasms, 
while  to  others  of  the  hard-headed,  practical  type,  she 
seemed  sentimental.  I,  as  umpire,  must  compromise 
by  admitting  that  she  was  certainly  what  is  called 
romantic.  And  I  was  about  to  bring  in  a  little  cheap 
philosophy  to  explain  that  this  was  due  to  the  vast 
amount  of  novels  and  poetry  with  which  she  had 
stuffed  her  head,  when  I  recalled  the  fact  that  some 
of  the  most  clear-headed,  energetic,  and  every  way 
admirable  women  that  I  have  known  devoured  every 
novel  that  they  could  lay  their  hands  on.  I,  therefore, 
abandon  the  reflection,  uncopyrighted,  to  such  moral- 
izers  and  others  as  have  leisure  to  explain  things  of 
which  they  know  nothing.  But  the  fact  was  as  I  have 
stated  it ;  Mary  was  a  thoroughly  romantic,  or,  if  you 
will,  sentimental  young  person,  though  I  regret  to 
have  to  say  so.  For  it  will  lower  her  in  your  estima 
tion,  I  fear,  when  I  make  known  to  you,  by  a  few 
illustrations,  what  I  mean  by  saying  she  was  romantic. 

It  is  more  necessary  for  me  to  do  this  than  would 
appear  to  the  average  contemporary  reader.  For  it  is 
more  than  likely  that  the  expression,  a  romantic  young 
female,  will  be  totally  unintelligible  in  your  day,  or, 
rather,  that  it  will  have  an  entirely  different  meaning 
from  that  which  those  words  convey  to  us.  You,  too, 
of  course,  will  not  be  without  your  romantic  virgins, — 
that  is  to  say,  maidens  of  tender  years,  who,  standing 
apon  the  hither  brink  of  that  dark  and  troublous  sea 
called  life,  and  watching  the  pitching  and  tossing  of 
the  numberless  barks  that  have  gone  before, — who,  see- 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  223 

ing  some  struggling  amid  the  breakers,  others  going  to 
pieces  on  the  reefs,  still  others  drifting,  dismantled 
and  shattered,  upon  a  shore  already  thick-strewn  with 
wrecks, — yet  love  to  dream  of  smooth  and  sunny  paths 
across  that  pitiless  waste  of  waters, — if — if  only  the 
Ideal  Pilot  may  be  found. 

Yes,  your  girls  will  have  their  ideals, — but  what  ideals  ? 

I  cannot  tell;  but  very  different,  doubtless,  from 
ours.  We  have  but  to  glance  at  here  a  page  and  there 
a  page  of  the  past  records  of  the  race,  to  feel  quite 
sui'e  that  woman's  ideal  man  has  varied  much  in  the 
tide  of  time.  Passing  by  prehistoric  man,  lest  I 
wound  the  susceptibilities  of  such  as  claim  that  he 
never  existed,  and  coming  forward  to  the  days  of 
Homer,  we  must  suppose  that  the  sentimental  daugh 
ters  of  the  literary  gentlemen  of  that  day — the  chiefs, 
to  wit,  who  patronized  the  blind  bard — for  rhapsody 
divine  bartering  the  prosaic  but  sustaining  bacon — we 
must  reckon  it  as  probable  that  these  young  women 
yearned — if  yearning  were  in  vogue  at  that  early 
period — yearned  to  be  led  from  the  parental  roof  by 
some  Achilles  of  a  youth,  tall,  broad-chested,  agile  as  a 
panther,  strong  as  a  lion,  with  thews  of  steel,  soul  of 
adamant,  eye  of  consuming  fire.  Juvenal,  again,  if  we 
may  pluck  a  leaf  at  random,  tells  us  that,  in  his  day,  a 
sentimental  married  woman  who  would  shriek  at  a 
mouse,  let  us  say,  was  capable  of  braving  the  sea  in 
a  leaky  old  hulk,  eloping  with  all  that  was  left  of  a 
gladiator  after  twenty  years'  hacking  in  the  arena. 
And  now,  making  a  spring  forward  into  the  last  quar 
ter  of  the  nineteenth  century,  we  find  the  ideal  of  the 
upper  ten  dozen  of  New  York  society,  for  example,  to 
be  a  nice  young  man  who  parts  his  hair  and  his  name 
in  the  middle,  leads  in  the  "  german"*  and  gets  all  his 
"  things''^  in  London.  [And  this  sufficed  till  but  re 
cently.  Of  late,  however,  as  I  read  in  the  papers,  the 
best  society  of  New  York  has  grown  more  exacting, 
and  no  one  need  now  aspire  to  be  looked  upon  as  a 
lion — a  knight  without  fear  and  without  reproach — 

*  Dance  of  the  period.  f  Clothes. 


224  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

unless,  after  devoting  for  some  years  hulf  bis  time  and 
all  his  mind,  as  it  were,  to  the  art,  he  can  "  handle  the 
reins"  well  enough  to  pass  for  a  real  stage-driver.  The 
'bus-drivers  themselves,  however,  whimsically  enough, 
are  not  held  in  half  the  estimation  of  their  imitators 
and  rivals  (just  as  mock-turtle  soup  is  deemed  by  many 
superior  to  the  genuine  decoction).  They  may  actually 
be  hired  at  two  dollars  a  day,  more  or  less,  and  seem 
positively  glad  to  get  that,  being  to  all  outward  seem 
ing  entirely  unconscious  of  the  glamour  attaching  to 
their  ennobling  art.]* 

But  to  judge  by  the  books  they  devoured  with  such 
eagerness,  and  the  heroes  they  thought  so  captivating, 
the  ideals,  thirty  years  ago,  of  the  Virginia  young 
women — I  may  not  speak  for  others — were  very  differ 
ent  from  any  of  those  above  depicted.  At  that  period  the 
influence  of  Byron's  powerful  genius  was  still  plainly 
discernible  in  many  works  of  fiction,  especially  those 
by  female  authors.  Now,  just  ascertain  cordials  lose 
all  their  piquancy  by  being  diluted,  so  the  morbid  crea 
tions  of  Byron's  unhealthy  muse  emerged,  after  passing 
through  the  alembic  of  female  fancy,  very  palo  heroes 
indeed ;  pale,  in  truth,  in  a  double  sense.  For,  at  one 
time,  I  remember,  a  bloodless  countenance  was  about 
all  that  was  required  to  constitute  a  hero  over  whom 
all  our  girls  went  mad.  The  fellow  was  invariably  dis 
mally  cold  and  impassive  "  in  outward  seeming ;"  but 
the  authoress  would  contrive  to  suggest  to  the  reader, 
by  a  hint  here  and  there,  that  this  coldness  was  in  out 
ward  seeming  only, — that  this  stern,  haughty  possessor 
of  the  broad,  pallid  brow  (against  which  he  ever  and 
anon  pressed  his  hand  as  though  in  pain)  was  the 
clandestine  owner  of  feelings  fit  to  be  compared  only  to 
a  stream  of  lava, — a  cold  crust  above,  concealing  a  fiery 
flood  beneath ;  an  icebei-g,  in  a  word,  with  a  volcano 
in  its  bosom.  There  are  no  such  icebergs,  I  believe, 
and  it  is  equally  certain  that  there  are  no  such  men  ; 
and  I  used  to  think,  in  those  days,  that  if  there  were 

*  If  oar  fierce  Bushwhacker  could  but  witness  the  annual  parade  of 
our  New  York  Coaching  Club,  he  would  be  heartily  ashamed  of  tbi* 
venomous  passage. — Ed. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  225 

such,  and  one  of  this  type  were  found  hanging  around 
a  girl,  the  circumstance  would  afford  her  big  brother's 
boot  legitimate  occasion  for  an  honorable  activity.  And 
I  still  think  that  this  heroic  treatment,  as  the  faculty 
would  term  it,  would  find  its  justification,  at  least  from 
a  sanitary  point  of  view.  For  it  is  to  be  remarked  that 
in  romances  infested  with  this  form  of  hero,  there  was, 
among  the  heroines,  a  veritable  epidemic  of  brain-fever ; 
whatever  that  may  be.  But  the  young  ladies  of  my 
acquaintance,  assigning  jealousy  as  the  source  of  these 
ferocious  sentiments,  could  not  be  brought  to  my  way 
of  thinking ;  and  of  all  of  a  certain  bevy  of  girls  with 
whom  I  associated,  I  believe  that  Mary  Rolfe  was 
furthest  gone  in  her  adoration  of  these  august  animals 
that  dwelt  apart. 

Now,  although  a  romantic  temperament  has  its  com 
pensations, — compensations  so  varied  and  so  valuable 
that,  on  the  whole,  it  must  be  regarded  as  a  blessing, — 
yet  its  dangers  are  as  obvious.  For  of  what  avail  is  an 
Ideal  without  its  Counterpart  ?  Now,  it  is  in  searching 
for  and  finding  this  Counterpart  that  lies  the  danger 
to  a  girl  of  imaginative  turn, — the  danger,  in  plain  Eng 
lish,  of  falling  in  love  without  a  just  and  reasonable 
regard  for  the  loaves  and  fishes  of  this  prosaic  world. 

Now,  even  from  the  preliminary  and  partial  sketch 
of  the  Don  already  made,  you  will  see  (though  less 
clearly  than  when  the  drawings  shall  have  been  com 
pleted  and  the  colors  rubbed  in)  that  he  was  a  man 
likely  to  make  a  vivid  impression  on  the  imagination 
of  a  girl  like  Mary.  I  should  be  sorry,  indeed,  to  have 
you  suppose  that  such  likelihood  arose  from  any  re 
semblance  on  his  part  to  the  type  of  novel-hero  so  fasci 
nating  to  her  imagination.  And  yet  he  appealed  to  that 
imagination  most  strongly.  Of  course  the  mystery  sur 
rounding  him  had  much  to  do  with  this.  Of  late  she  had 
found  herself  continually  asking  herself  who  he  could 
be.  Was  he  a  Virginian  ?  Hardly,  else  some  one  would 
know  him.  Then,  why  had  he  come  to  Virginia  ?  Was 
he  an  English  nobleman,  travelling  incognito?  Per 
haps!  But  no!  from  several  observations  that  he  had 
let  drop,  he  could  scarcely  be  that.  He  was  a  gentlo- 

P 


226  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

man,  certainly ;  but  then,  what  need  has  a  gentleman 
of  mystery?  Had  he  committed  any — ?  Impossible! 
And  so,  da  capo, — who  can  he  be?  More  than  once 
she  bad  caught  herself  stamping  her  little  foot  and 
muttering  impatiently,  "  What  is  he  to  me  ?"  But  his 
image  kept  returning  to  her  mind.  The  truth  is,  she 
was  getting  what  the  girls  used  to  call,  in  those  days, 
"  interested," — a  word  which  means  far  more  with 
women  than  with  us  men.  "  In  love"  is  what  we 
should  call  it ;  but  that  is  an  expression  which  women 
are  chary  of  using,  unless  of  men.  According  to  their 
philosophy,  it  is  tacitly  assumed  that,  as  it  is  not  the 
proper  thing  for  a  woman  to  fall  in  love  until  she  has 
been  asked  to,  she  never  does ;  and  I  believe  this  to  be 
true,  as  a  rule.  In  fact,  it  seems  to  me  that  falling  in 
love,  as  it  is  called,  is,  with  women,  a  purely  voluntary 
act.  When  entreated  to  lose  their  hearts  they  lose 
them,  should  it  seem  judicious,  all  things  considered,  so 
to  do;  if  not,  not.  But  as  in  Latin  grammar,  so  in  life: 
there  are  exceptions  to  all  rules;  and  while,  in  nine 
cases  out  of  ten,  women  are  guided  by  judgment  and 
reason,  men  impelled  by  passion  and  instinct,  in  their 
matrimonial  ventures,  yet  there  is,  after  all,  a  tenth 
case  (all  my  readers  are  tenth  cases  if  they  will)  where 
a  woman,  deluded  by  her  imagination,  wrecks  her  life 
on  breakers  that  seemed,  to  others  at  least,  too  apparent 
to  need  a  beacon.  Nor  are  the  weaker  sisters  most  liable 
to  blunders  of  this  kind  ;  for  it  seems  to  me  that  I  have 
remarked  that  gifted  women  are  most  apt  to  throw 
themselves  away  on  men  entirely  unworthy  of  them  ; 
led  captive  by  the  ideals  their  own  hearts  have  fash 
ioned  ;  making  gods  of  stocks  and  stones. 


CHAPTEK  XXXYI. 

NEVER,  perhaps,  was  there  a  merrier  Christmas 
party  than  that  which  was  now  laughing  and  chatter 
ing  as  they  seated  themselves  before  that  noble  hickory 
fire  which  lit  up  the  Hall  with  its  ruddy  glow.  The 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  227 

pleasantest  thing  of  all  was  to  see  the  happy  change 
that  had  come  over  the  Don.  He  was  a  different  man. 
That  air  of  self-restraint  and  conscious  reserve,  which 
had  never  left  him  before,  had  entirely  vanished.  It 
was  evident  that,  whatever  his  motives  for  concealing 
his  musical  talents,  it  was  an  immense  relief  to  him  to 
have  abandoned  the  singular  role  he  had  been  playing; 
and  his  long-imprisoned  feelings  had  bounded  up  like 
a  released  spring.  We  hardly  knew  him.  He  was  not 
only  unconstrained  and  cheerful,  he  was  even  jolly. 
"  I  say,  old  boy,"  said  he,  slapping  Jones  on  the  shoul 
der,  "  you  must  not  suppose  that  it  was  I  who  laid  that 
trap  for  you  yesterday  evening.  My  playing  was 
purely  unintentional, — even  involuntary.  But  who 
could  have  resisted  Uncle  Tom?"  This  was  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  called  my  grandfather  by  that  name. 

"  No  apologies,  no  apologies,"  replied  Billy.  "  Mr. 
Charles  Frobisher  set  that  snare  for  my  unwary  feet." 

"Not  at  all,"  rejoined  Charley.  "1  kept  my  wary 
feet  out  of  it,  that  was  all." 

"But  wasn't  it  capital!"  cried  Jones;  and  showing 
all  his  massive  white  teeth,  he  made  the  hall  resound 
with  a  laugh  that  echoed  contagiously  from  group  to 
group. 

But  there  was  one  person  in  the  room  who  did  not 
share  in  the  general  joyousness, — our  friend  Mary. 
She  had  taken  her  stand  apart,  by  a  window  that  com 
manded  the  western  horizon  ;  and  turning  with  a  half- 
startled  air,  at  the  sound  of  the  laughter,  responded  to 
it  with  a  faint  and  preoccupied  smile.  In  truth,  the 
poor  child  was  ill  at  ease;  though  what  it  was  that 
troubled  that  young  heart  none  of  my  readers,  I  feel 
assured,  would  ever  guess.  Yet,  while  to  most  of  them 
the  cause  of  her  annoyance  will  appear  whimsical  in 
the  extreme,  as  it  was  characteristic  of  her  to  suffer 
from  such  a  cause,  I  must  state  it,  and  towards  this  end 
a  few  prefatory  words  will  be  necessary. 

Neither  the  Virginians  nor  the  American  people,  nor 
any  branch  of  the  great  race  from  which  they  spring, 
are  lovers  of  music.  Our  boys,  it  is  true,  will  troop  up 
and  down  the  streets  of  village  or  city,  following  the 


228  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

band-wagon  of  a  circus.  "We  manufacture  an  enormous 
number  of  the  very  best  pianos  in  the  world,  and  thou 
sands  of  our  girls  labor  for  years  learning  to  play  a  few 
tunes  on  them:  Mothers  without  number  pinch  them- 
Belves  that  their  daughters  may  have  the  desired  in 
struction.  It  is  the  correct  thing.  Yet,  her  graduating 
concert  over,  her  piano  soon  ceases  to  constitute  any 
more  considerable  element  of  a  girl's  happiness,  or  that 
of  her  family,  than  her  copy  of  Euclid. 

Yet,  although  English  of  the  purest  breed,  there  are 
Virginians  who  really  love  music;  just  as  you  shall 
find  Spaniards  with  red  hair,  bashful  Irishmen,  women 
with  beards,  hens  that  crow,  bullies  with  courage,  mules 
without  guile,  and  short  sermons  and  true  happiness. 
I  do  not  allude  to  our  charming  girls  who  flock  to  the 
occasional  opera  that  visits  Richmond, — for  in  Rich 
mond,  as  elsewhere,  there  are  dozens  of  reasons  for 
flocking  to  the  opera. 

No ;  I  had  in  my  mind  the  far-famed  Virginia  fid 
dler — mock  him  not,  ye  profane — who,  though  frowned 
upon  by  the  moralist,  viewed  askance  from  the  pulpit, 
without  honor  as  without  profit  in  his  own  country, 
still  scrapes  away  as  merrily  as  he  can  under  the  load 
of  obloquy  that  weighs  him  down.  But  his  devotion, 
if  heroic,  wins  him  no  glory ;  for  the  people  of  Vir 
ginia,  forgetting,  with  the  usual  ingratitude  of  repub 
lics,  Thomas  Jefferson  and  Patrick  Henry,  regard  the 
worthlessness  of  the  whole  fiddling  tribe  as  axiomatic. 
Nay,  worse,  there  is  a  vague  feeling  that  the  thing  is 
vulgar. 

Now,  in  that  word  lies  the  key  to  Mary  Rolfo's  dis 
tress  of  mind.  Born  and  bred  in  the  midst  of  that 
singularly  pure,  and  simple,  and  refined  society  of  Rich 
mond  in  the  ante-bellum  days,  inheriting  from  her 
father  a  love  of  all  that  was  most  beautiful  in  English 
prose  and  verse,  as  well  as  led  by  his  hand  to  the  nooks 
where  were  to  be  culled  its  choicest  flowers ;  her  man 
ners  formed  and  her  instincts  moulded  by  her  mother 
upon  the  classic  types  of  Virginia  patrician  life  of  the 
olden  time,  she  was  more  than  a  representative  of  her 
class.  The  refined  delicacy  of  her  nature  amounted, 


THE  STORY   OF  DON  MIFF.  229 

if  not  to  a  fault,  at  least  to  a  misfortune.  In  the  society 
of  those  like  herself  she  was  easy,  affable,  winning; 
but  the  slightest  deviation  from  high  breeding  chilled 
her  into  silence  and  unconquerable  reserve.  The  most 
trivial  social  solecism  shocked,  vulgarity  stunned  her. 

And  fiddling! 

According  to  her  high-wrought  soul  the  thing  was 
unworthy  of  a  gentleman.  Nor  is  this  so  much  to  be 
wondered  at,  for,  although  distinguished  violinists  had 
visited  Eichmon.d,  it  so  happened  that  she  had  never 
heard  one.  Her  knowledge  of  violin  music  was  con 
fined  to  fiddling  pure  and  simple, — the  compositions, 
jigs  and  reels ;  the  performers,  as  a  rule,  negroes. 

If,  then,  I  have  in  any  measure  succeeded  in  depict 
ing  Mary  as  she  really  was, — an  exquisitely  refined, 
oversensitive  girl  just  out  of  school,  her  head  full  of 
poetry  and  romance,  her  heart  beginning  to  flutter  with 
a  sweet  pain  in  presence  of  an  Ideal  Hero,  so  suddenly, 
so  strangely  encountered, — my  reader  (being  a  woman) 
will  appreciate  the  shock  she  felt  on  that  Christmas 
morning.  It  will  be  remembered  that  it  was  Aunt 
Phoebe  who  had  been  the  first  to  describe  the  Don's 
performance  to  the  young  ladies. 

"  Play  de  fiddle  ?  Can  he  play  de  fiddle  ?  I  b'lieve 
you,  honey!  Why,  Lor'  bless  me,  I  do  p'int'ly  b'lieve 
into  my  soul  dat  Mr.  Smith  is  de  top  fiddler  of  de 
Nunited  States!" 

A  fiddler !  And  a  top  fiddler !  Shades  of  Byron  and 
of  Bulwer !  Mary  felt  an  icy  numbness  at  her  heart. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards,  when  the  two  girls  were 
nearly  ready  for  breakfast,  she  was  standing  behind 
Alice,  pinning  on  her  collar. 

"  Oh,  Alice,"  cried  the  little  hypocrite,  suddenly,  as 
though  the  thought  had  but  just  occurred  to  her, 
"  what  charming  music  we  shall  have  now!" 

"  Oo-ee,"  cried  Alice,  shrinking. 

"Ah,  did  I  prick  your  neck  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  no  matter.     Oh,  yes,  I  am  just  dying  to 

hear  him  play, — and  play  he  shall,  or  my  name  is  not 

Alice  Carter:    There  you  go  again!     Bear  in  mind, 

please,  that  the  collar  is  to  be  pinned  to  my  dress,  not 

20 


230        THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

to  ray  lovely  person.  What  could  have  induced  him  to 
hide  such  an  accomplishment!"  added  she,  stamping 
her  little  foot. 

"  There !  That  sets  very  nicely  I  I  don't  know 
what  made  me  so  awkward.  So  you  think  it  is — 
wait  a  moment, — ah,  that's  just  right, — an  accom 
plishment?" 

One  man  in  a  thousand  may  acquire  somewhat  of  the 
art,  but  every  woman  is  born  a  perfect  actress.  True, 
you  shall  not  see  this  perfection  on  the  stage.  There 
the  ambition  of  women  is  to  be  actresses,  rather  than 
actresses  women. 

It  was  perfect !  But  Alice  was  not  thrown  off  the 
Bcent. 

Men  can  deceive  men ;  men  may  hoodwink  women, 
and  be  hoodwinked  in  turn ;  but  it  has  not  been  given 
to  one  woman  to  throw  dust  into  the  eyes  of  another. 
The  silliest  girl  can  see  through  the  most  astute  as 
though  she  were  of  glass. 

"  An  accomplishment  ?  What  ?  To  pin  people's  col 
lars  to  their  necks  ?" 

"  Of  course  not,  goosey  I  An  accomplishment  for 
gentlemen  to  play  on  the  fid — violin  ?" 

"Oh!"  said  Alice,  dryly.  "Why,  of  course  it  is. 
Any  art  which  gives  pleasure  is  an  accomplishment." 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  but—" 

"  Go  on." 

"  I  don't  think  it  is — exactly — oh,  I  don't  know  what 
I  think  about  it." 

"  But  I  do,"  replied  Alice,  quickly,  turning  and  facing 
her  friend. 

"  And  what  do  you  know  that  I  think,  that  I  do  not 
know  myself?"  said  Mary,  putting  her  hands  on  Alice's 
shoulders,  drawing  her  close,  and  smiling  affectionately 
into  her  eyes. 

"  Don't  you  remember  my  laughing,  once,  at  school, 
over  the  story  about  Alcibiades'  refusing  to  learn,  to 
play  on  the  flute,  because  he  deemed  the  necessary 
puckering  of  the  mouth  undignified,  and  that  you 
thought  he  was  right?  Heroes,  my  dear,  according  to 
your  romantic  notions,  must  always  be  heroic." 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  231 

"Heroes!"  exclaimed  Mary,  with  wide-eyed  inno- 
cence.  "  Who,  pray,  mentioned  heroes !"  But  a  height 
ened  color  tinged  her  cheeks. 

Alice,  without  making  reply,  placed  her  hand  over 
Mary's  heart,  and  stood  as  though  counting  its  beats. 
"  'Tis  a  dear  little  heart,"  mused  she,  "  but — " 

"  But  what  ?" 

"But  very  susceptible,  I  fear."  And  lifting  her 
right  hand,  she  shook  her  forefinger  at  her  friend. 
"Take  care!"  said  she,  with  a  voice  and  look  half 
serious,  half  jocular. 

"  Oh,  don't  be  uneasy  about  me !"  And  with  a  bright 
smile  on  her  flushed  face  Mary  frisked  away  to  join 
some  of  the  other  girls  who  were  descending  to  the 
breakfast- room. 

Falling  in  love  is  like  getting  drunk, — we  blush  when 
we  betray  symptoms  of  the  malady,  yet  rejoice  in  its 
progress !  * 

CHAPTER  XXXYII. 

WE  now  return  to  our  friends  assembled  in  the  Hall. 

Especially  among  the  ladies  who  had  not  heard  the 
Don's  first  performance,  expectation  was  on  tiptoe. 
The  excellent  Herr  is  bustling  about,  rubbing  his  hands, 
and  smiling  through  his  spectacles  the  vast  Teutonic 
smile.  Charley  places  the  case  containing  the  Guarne- 
rius  upon  the  table.  The  Don  opens  it  with  an  almost 
nervous  eagerness.  She  is  to  hear  him,  and  he  will 
outdo  himself. 

But  where  is  she?  Presently  he  espies  her  partly 
concealed  behind  the  stalwart  form  of  Jones.  She  is 
gazing  at  the  western  sky, — she  alone  of  all  the  com 
pany  unconscious  that  he  is  about  to  play. 

The  thought  is  a  sudden  shock.  And  then  he  remem 
bers  that  she  alone  of  the  ladies  had  made  no  allusion, 
during  the  day,  to  the  performance  of  the  evening  before, 
— had  expressed  no  regret  at  not  having  been  present. 

*  And  for  such  sentiments  I  was  to  stand  sponsor !  John  Bouche 
Whacker,  thou  corrupter  of  youth,  avaunt ! — Ed. 


232  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

The  artist  nature  is  caprice  itself, — changeful  as  an 
April  sky;  and  the  Don  with  sudden  impulse  relwisi-d 
the  neck  of  the  violin,  which  sank  back  upon  its  luxuri 
ous  cushion  of  blue  satin.  He  would  excuse  himself, — • 
he  could  not  play.  But  the  strings,  vibrating  beneath 
an  accidental  touch,  gave  forth  a  chord,  and  instantly 
reversed  the  current  of  his  feelings.  Yes,  he  would 
play ;  and  taking  up  the  instrument,  he  sauntered  over, 
with  as  careless  an  air  as  he  could  command,  to  the 
window  by  which  Mary  stood,  touching  the  strings 
lightly  as  he  went,  as  though  to  see  whether  they  were 
in  tune.  Mary  felt  his  approach ;  and  partly  turning 
her  face  and  raising  her  eyes  to  his,  as  he  reached  her 
side,  she  said,  with  what  was  meant  for  a  smile,  "  Now 
we  shall  have  some  merry  music."  And  she  dropped 
her  eyes. 

"Why  merry?" 

Mary,  startled  as  well  by  the  abruptness  of  the  ques 
tion  as  by  a  certain  hardness  in  his  voice,  gave  a  quick 
glance  at  his  face. 

"  Why,  is  not  the  violin — "  began  she,  but  could  get 
no  farther, — held,  as  was  the  Wedding  Guest  by  the 
glittering  eye  of  the  Ancient  Mariner. 

"  Is  this,  then,  a  merry  world  ?" 

The  smile  faded  from  Mary's  face.  These  words  had 
thrilled  her;  for  it  was  not  by  nature  a  blithesome 
heart  that  beat  in  that  young  bosom,  and  its  strings 
gave  forth  readiest  response  to  minor  chords.  A  slight 
tremor  ran  through  her  frame  as  she  met  the  gaze  of 
his  darkly  gleaming  eyes,  and  a  vague  sense  of  having 
in  some  way  wounded  his  feelings  oppressed  her  mind. 

Perhaps  he  read  her  thoughts;  for  in  an  instant  a 
reassuring  smile — sad,  almost  pathetic — came  into  his 
eyes,  followed  by  a  look, — one  momentary,  indescriba 
ble  glance;  and  her  untutored  heart  began  to  throb  so 
that  she  thought  he  must  hear  it. 

"  I,  at  least,"  he  added,  slowly,  "  have  not  found  it  such, 
so  far;  and  see,"  said  he,  pointing  with  his  bow  to  the 
faint  streaks  of  red  that  tinged  the  western  horizon, — 
"still  another  Christmas  Day — and  the  only  happy  one 
that  I  have  known  since  I  was  a  child — one  more 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  233 

Christmas  Day — is  dying!"  And  his  voice  trembled  a8 
he  averted  his  face. 

Mary  felt  a  choking  sensation  in  her  throat ;  for  a 
kindred  thought  had  been  weighing  upon  her  natui-ally 
melancholy  spirit,  as  she  stood  there  gazing  upon  the 
western  sky;  and  the  Don,  in  giving  voice  to  her  in 
most  thoughts,  had  touched  a  chord  that  thrilled  with 
overmastering  power.  As  he  moved  away  to  take  his 
place  by  the  piano,  she  sank  into  a  chair  trembling 
from  head  to  foot.  They  had  stood  together  by  the 
window  hardly  one  minute,  and  had  not  exchanged 
above  a  dozen  words ;  yet  as  she  followed  his  retiring 
form  with  her  eyes,  he  was  no  longer  the  same  person 
to  her  that  he  had  been  a  moment  before.  She  was 
stricken  to  the  heart,  and  she  knew  it. 

The  Don  spoke  to  Charley  in  a  low  voice.  "Yes," 
replied  he,  "  we  have  it ;"  and  hurrying  into  the  ad 
joining  room  he  soon  returned,  bearing  in  his  hand 
some  sheet  music.  "Thanks,"  said  the  Don,  placing 
the  piano-part  before  the  Herr,  and  laying  the  violin 
score  upon  the  piano.  "  Never  mind  about  the  stand ; 
I  know  it  by  heart.  Can  you  read  yours,  Mein  Herr, 
by  the  light  of  the  fire  ?" 

"Oh,  I  tink  so."  And  adjusting  his  spectacles,  he 
looked  at  the  title  of  the  piece.  "  De  Blegie  von  Ernst ! 
Ah,  das  ist  vat  you  call  very  sat,  very  vat  you  call 
melancholish," — and  he  struck  a  chord.  "So!" — and 
poising  his  hands,  he  glanced  upwards  to  signify  his 
readiness  to  begin. 

A  sudden  stillness  came  over  us  at  the  sight  of  the 
sombre  face  of  the  Don.  Obviously,  we  all  felt  there 
was  to  be  a  change  of  programme.  There  were  to  be 
no  musical  fireworks  on  this  occasion. 

Had  the  Don  been  a  consummate  actor,  posing  for 
effect,  he  could  not  have  brought  his  audience  into  more 
instant,  more  complete  harmony  with  the  spirit  of  the 
piece  he  was  about  to  render.  Tall,  broad-shouldered, 
gaunt,  he  seemed  in  the  ruddy  glare  of  the  great  bank 
of  coals  to  tower  above  us,  while  his  eyes,  fixed  for  a 
moment  with  a  far-away  look  upon  the  fire,  seemed 
doubly  dark  in  contrast  with  the  red  light  upon  his  brow. 

20* 


234  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

He  placed  the  violin  beneath  his  dark,  flowing  beard, 
and  poised  the  bow  above  the  strings. 

I  fear  that  but  few  of  my  readers  will  follow  me  in 
this  scene.  To  have  heard  pathetic  music  only  in 
theatres  and  concert-halls,  amid  a  sea  of  careless  faces 
distracted  by  bright  toilets,  and  under  the  glare  of  gas 
light,  is  to  have  heard  it,  indeed,  but  not  to  have  felt 
it.  The  "  Miserere"  chanted  in  the  dim  religious  light 
of  St.  Peter's  rends  the  heart  of  the  listener.  It  has 
been  found  to  be  meaningless  elsewhere.  For  the 
power  of  music,  as  of  eloquence,  lies  in  the  heart  of 
the  hearer, — a  heart  prepared  beforehand  by  the  sur 
roundings. 

On  the  present  occasion  everything  was  in  the 
artist's  favor, — the  dying  day,  the  spectral  glare  and 
shadow  wrought  by  the  glowing  coals,  the  reaction 
after  a  week  of  frolic  gladness. 

The  bow  descended  upon  the  G  string,  softly  as  a 
snow-flake,  but  clinging  as  a  mother's  arm. 

Ernst  has  obeyed  Horace's  maxim,  and  plunged  at 
once  into  the  middle  of  his  story.  With  the  very  first 
tone  of  the  violin  there  seems  to  break  from  the  over 
wrought  heart  a  low  moan,  which,  rising  and  swelling, 
leaps,  in  the  second  note,  into  a  cry  of  rebellious  an 
guish, — anguish  too  bitter  to  be  borne ;  despair  were 
more  endurable  ;  and  in  the  fourth  bar  the  voice  of  the 
crushed  spirit  sinks  into  a  weird,  muttered  whisper  of 
resignation  unresigned.  The  whole  story  is  there, — 
there  in  those  four  bars,  but  the  poet  begins  anew  and 
sings  his  sorrow  in  detail ;  pouring  forth  a  lament  so 
passionate  in  its  frenzy  that  it  almost  passes,  at  times, 
the  bounds  of  true  music  (for  can  you  not  hear  the 
sobs,  see  the  wringing  of  the  hands  ?),  and  rising,  at 
last,  to  a  climax  that  is  almost  insupportable,  the  voice 
of  wailing  then  sinks — for  all  is  over — into  a  low  plaint, 
and  dies  into  silence. 

The  Marcia  Funebre  of  the  Eroica  symphony  is  the 
lament  of  a  nation  of  Titans ;  in  Ernst's  Elegie  one  poor 
human  heart  is  breaking — breaking  all  alone.  I  have 
heard  the  piece  since  in  crowded  halls  and  beneath  the 
blaze  of  chandeliers,  and  performed  by  artists  more 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  235 

finished,  no  doubt,  than  .was  the  Don ;  but  the  effect  he 
wrought  I  have  never  seen  approached.  All  eyes  were 
riveted  upon  him  while  he  played,  and  when  he  ceased 
— when  the  last  despairing  sigh  died  upon  the  air — no 
one  moved,  not  a  note  of  applause  was  given,  and  the 
only  sound  heard  was  that  of  long-drawn  breaths  of 
relief. 

It  was  an  intense  moment.  My  grandfather  was  the 
first  to  break  the  spell.  Approaching  the  Don  with  a 
tender  look  in  his  eyes,  he  tried,  I  think,  to  speak  a  few 
words,  but  could  only  pi'ess  his  hand.  Then  there  arose 
a  subdued  murmur  of  whispered  enthusiasm,  each  one 
to  his  neighbor.  At  last — 

"  Billy,"  said  the  middle-aged-fat-gentleman,  "  I  give 
it  up, — he  can  beat  you."  And  a  ripple  of  laughter  re 
lieved  the  tension. 

And  Mary  ? 

She  and  the  Don  happened  to  be  among  the  last  to 
leave  the  hall,  and  he  offered  her  his  arm.  Neither 
spoke  for  a  few  moments. 

"  How  silly  you  must  have  thought  me !" 

"  I  assure  you — " 

"Oh,  but  you  must.  But  I  had  never  heard  any 
thing  but  fiddling  before.  Do  you  know,"  she  added 
gravely,  "  I  doubt  if  any  of  the  company  understood 
all  that  you  meant,  save  myself?" 

"  And  are  you  quite  sure  that  you  understood  all  that 
I  felt  ?" 

Mary  looked  up  and  their  eyes  met.  Releasing  his 
arm  as  she  passed  into  the  house,  she  colored  deeply. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

"  Is  not  this  Thursday  ?"  suddenly  asked  my  grand 
father,  at  breakfast,  a  week  or  so  after  the  events  just 
described.  "  It  is  ?  Then  this  is  the  day  for  the  Poy- 
thress's  return.  Ah,  now  we  shall  have  music." 

A  man  talking  with  another  may  look  him  in  the 


236  THE  STORY   OF  DON  MIFF. 

face  for  an  hour  without  knowing  one  of  his  thoughts; 
a  woman  will  flash  a  careless  glance  across  your  face, 
— across  it — no  more, — and  read  you  to  the  heart. 

Alice  and  Mary  beamed  upon  each  other  and  ejacu 
lated,  "  Lucy !"  But  Mary's  eyes  bad  had  time  to  sweep 
the  features  of  the  Don.  "  Won't  it  be  charming  to 
have  Lucy  with  us!"  said  she;  but  she  hardly  knew 
what  she  said.  Her  face,  turned  towai'ds  Alice,  wore 
a  mechanical  smile;  but  she  saw  only  the  Don  and 
the  startled,  almost  dazed  look  that  came  over  his 
face  on  hearing  Mr.  Whacker's  words.  How  brave 
a  little  woman  can  be !  She  turned  to  the  Don  and 
said, — a  seraphic  smile  upon  her  face, — "  You  have 
never  heard  Lucy  play.  You  have  a  great  treat  in 
store." 

"No,"  replied  he,  dropping  his  napkin.  "No,"  re 
peated  he,  his  eye  fixed  upon  vacancy.  He  had  beard 
with  his  ears  and  answered  with  his  lips.  That  was 
all.  Suddenly  recollecting  himself,  he  turned  to  her 
with  a  bow  and  a  courteous  smile:  "Yes,  it  will  be  a 
great  treat, — very  great;"  but  his  thoughts,  mightier 
than  his  will,  swept  the  smile  from  his  features  and  left 
them  pale  and  rigid  as  before. 

How  many  thoughts  crowded  upon  Mary's  heart  in 
that  instant !  "  What  a  silly  school-girl  I  have  been  I 
A  word  here  and  a  word  there,  during  these  last  ten 
days,  have  made  me  forget  the  intense  interest  he  ob 
viously  took  in  Lucy  at  first  sight.  After  all,  what 
has  he  said  to  me  ?  Nothing,  absolutely  nothing  1  And 
yet  I  was  so  weak  as  to  imagine — and  now  he  has 
learned  of  a  new  bond  of  sympathy — music — between 
Lucy  and  himself.  Why  did  I  learn  nothing  but 
waltzes  and  variations  and  such  trash?  If  only — too 
late!  And  he  has  seen  so  little  of  her!  That  dream, 
too, — that  strange,  terrible  dream, — should  have  warned 
me.  And  now  Lucy  is  coming.  Lucy!  is  she,  then, 
so  superior  to  me  ?  She  is  as  good  as  an  angel,  I  know  ; 
but  I  thought  that  I — wretched  vanity  again" — and  she 
stamped  her  foot — "yet  Alice  has  thought  so  too — else 
why — surely,  he  cannot  have  been  trifling  with  me? 
Never !  Of  that,  at  least,  he  is  incapable !  Such  a  noble 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  237 

Countenance  as  his  could  not — "  And  for  a  second  she 
lifted  her  eyes  to  his — 

"  Yes,  Zip,  I'll  take  one." 

"  Girls,"  said  Alice,  "just  look  at  Mary;  an  untasted 
waffle  on  her  plate  and  taking  another !" 

Mary  gave  one  of  those  ringing  laughs  that  so  infest 
the  pages  of  female  novelists. 

"  Is  there  to  be  a  famine  ?"  asked  one. 

"Or  is  the  child  falling  in  love?"  chimed  in  Alice; 
but  without  raising  her  eyes  from  her  empty  coffee-cup, 
in  the  bottom  of  which  she  was  writing  and  re-writing 
her  initials  with  the  spoon. 

To  all  the  rest  of  the  company  these  words  seemed 
as  light  and  careless  as  the  wind.  Not  so  to  Mary. 
Her  heart  leaped ;  but,  by  some  subtle  process  known 
only  to  women,  she  forbade  the  blood  to  mount  into 
her  cheek. 

"  I  warn  you  to  beware,"  said  Mr.  Whacker.  "  Full 
many  a  heart  has  been  lost  in  this  house !" 

"  All  hearts,  I  must  believe,"  rejoined  Mary,  with  a 
bow  and  half-coquettish  smile. 

My  grandfather  placed  his  hand  upon  his  heart  and 
bent  low  over  the  table,  amid  the  approving  plaudits 
of  the  company.  Charley  did  the  same.  "There  are 
two  of  us,"  he  explained;  "Uncle  T-T-Tom  and 
myself." 

"  He  is  laughing  now ;  how  he  seems  to  admire  Mr. 
Frobisherl  But  why  did  he  turn  pale,  just  now,  at 
the  mention  of  Lucy's  name?  I  have  never  read  any 
where  of  love's  producing  that  effect,  certainly.  Per 
haps — perhaps,  after  all,  he  did  not  change  color.  My 
imagination,  doubtless.  No,  I  am  not  mistaken !  Why, 
his  brow  is  actually  beaded  with  perspiration!  incom 
prehensible  enigma!  would  to  heaven  I  had  never  met 
him  !  and  yet — " 

If  any  of  my  young  readers  shall  be  so  indiscreet  as 
to  fall  in  love  with  enigmas,  let  them  not  lay  the  folly 
to  my  charge.  I  most  solemnly  warn  them  against  it. 

Poor  little  Mary  watched  the  Don  all  that  day  with 
that  scrutiny  so  piercing,  and  yet  so  unobtrusive,  of 
which  a  woman's  eye  alone  is  capable, — hopefully  fear- 


238  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

ing  to  discover  the  truth  of  what  she  fearfully  hoped 
was  not  true;  but  it  was  not  before  the  sun  had  sunk 
low  in  the  west,  and  she  had  begun  to  convince  herself 
of  the  illusory  character  of  her  observations  at  the 
breakfast-table,  that  she  got  such  rewai'd  as  that  of  the 
woman  who,  after  twenty  years'  searching,  at  last 
found  a  burglar  under  her  bed. 

As  the  time  approached  at  which  the  Poythress 
family  should  arrive  (at  their  home  across  the  river), 
my  grandfather  would  go  out  upon  the  piazza  every 
few  minutes,  and  after  looking  across  the  broad  river 
return  and  report  that  there  were  no  signs  of  the 
carriage. 

"  It  is  not  yet  time  by  half  an  hour,"  said  Charley, 
looking  at  his  watch. 

"  At  any  rate  I'll  get  the  telescope  and  have  it  ready," 
replied  he,  as  he  passed  into  the  dining-room;  return 
ing,  bearing  in  his  hand  one  of  those  long  marine 
glasses  so  much  used  at  that  time.  "  This  is  a  remark 
ably  fine  glass,"  said  he  to  the  Don. 

The  Don  was  seated  behind  Alice's  chair,  helping  her 
to  play  her  hand  at  whist,  if  that  name  be  applicable 
to  a  rattling  combination  of  cards,  conversation,  and 
bursts  of  laughter. 

"  Last  summer,"  continued  Mr.  Whacker,  "  I  counted 
with  it  a  hen  and  seven  small  chickens  on  the  Poy- 
thress's  lawn — " 

"Mr.  Frobisher!"  cried  Alice.  "There  you  are 
trumping  my  ace !" 

"Charley!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Whacker,  with  reproach 
ful  surprise. 

"And,  Uncle  Tom,  would  you  believe  it, — he  has 
made  three  revokes  already  ?  What  ought  to  be  done 
to  such  a  partner  ?" 

Jones,  who  ought  to  have  been  back  at  the  Univer 
sity  long  since,  was,  on  the  contrary,  seated  at  a  neigh 
boring  card-table.  He  remembered  the  scrape  that 
Charley  had  gotten  him  into  on  Christmas  Eve. 

''  I  don't  think,"  said  he,  soliloquizing,  us  he  slowly 
dealt  out  the  cards,  "  that  I  could  love  a  partner  who 
revoked." 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  239 

A  smile  ran  around  the  tables.     Charley  bit  his  lip. 

"  What,  Charley  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Whacker.  "  The 
ace  of  trumps  second  in  hand,  and  you  had  another!" 

"I  wanted  to  take  that  particular  trick,"  said  Charley, 
doggedly. 

Charley  and  Jones  were  sitting  back  to  back,  their 
chairs  almost  touching.  Jones  turned  around,  and,  with 
his  lips  within  an  inch  of  the  back  of  Charley's  head, 
spoke  in  measured  tones,  "  He — is — after — a — particu 
lar — trick,  Uncle  Tom  ;  hence  his  peculiar  play." 

Every  one  laughed,  even  Charley.  Alice's  cheeks 
rivalled  the  tints  of  the  conch-shell;  and  Mary,  charmed 
to  see  her  for  once  on  the  defensive,  clapped  her  hands 
till  half  her  cards  were  on  the  floor. 

I  should  not  have  said  that  everybody  laughed,  for 
my  grandfather  did  not  even  smile.  No  suspicion  of 
the  state  of  things  to  which  Jones  had  maliciously 
alluded  had  ever  crossed  his  mind.  He  was  totally 
absorbed  in  contemplation  of  the  enormity  of  playing 
out  one's  ace  of  trumps  second  in  hand.  And  that 
Charley — Charley,  whom  he  had  trained  from  a  boy  to 
the  rigor  of  the  game  according  to  Hoyle — that  he 
should  seem  to  defend  such — so — so  horrible  a  sole 
cism  !  It  was  too  much.  He  was  a  picture  to  look  at, 
as  he  stood  erect,  the  nostrils  of  his  patrician  nose 
dilated  with  a  noble  indignation,  his  snowy  hair  con 
trasting  with  his  dark  and  glowing  eyes,  that  swept 
from  group  to  group  of  mirthful  faces,  and  back  again, 
oternly  wondering  at  their  untimely  merriment. 

"  But,  Uncle  Tom,"  put  in  Jones — 

"No,  no!"  interrupted  Mr.  Whacker,  with  an  im 
patient  wave  of  his  hand.  "Nothing  can  justify  such 
play." 

"  But,  Uncle  Tom,  suppose — " 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Mr.  Whacker,  in  a  gentler  tone, 
mollified  by  the  anticipation  of  easy  and  certain  victory, 
"  very  well;  make  your  supposition."  And  he  assumed 
a  judicial  brow. 

"Now,  suppose  that  there  is  a  particular  hand — " 

Billy  paused. 

"  Well,  go  on." 


240  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"A  very  particular  hand." 

My  grandfather's  ej7es  began  to  flash.  The  vast  host 
of  those  who  believe  in  playing  "  according  to  their 
hands"  rose  before  his  mind. 

"Go  on,"  added  he,  controlling  himself  with  an 
effort. 

"Suppose  there. is  a  certain  hand  that  a  fellow — a 
hand  that  a  certain  fellow — for  example — wants — 
wants — to  get  possession  of." 

Charley  winced,  and  Alice's  color  rose  in  spite  of 
her  utmost  efforts  to  look  unconcerned. 

"A  band  that  he  wants  to  get  possession  of!"  cried 
Mr.  Whacker,  with  unspeakable  amazement.  "  What 
gibberish  is  this  ?  I  was  supposing  all  along  that  he 
had  the  hand !" 

"  No ;  but  he  wants  it  aw-ful-ly,"  said  Jones,  with 
sepulchral  solemnity. 

Peal  after  peal  of  laughter  arose,  while  Charley 
shuffled  his  cards  with  the  vigor  of  desperation.  Poor 
fellow,  he  had  never  been  in  love  before,  and — keen 
humorist  that  he  was — he  knew  full  well  that  no  man 
could  be  in  love  without  being  at  the  same  time  ridicu 
lous.  My  grandfather  looked  on,  mystified  but  smiling. 
"  This  is  one  of  your  jokes,"  said  he,  taking  Billy  by 
both  ears. 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  is  a  case — ouch ! — of  the  very 
deadest  earnest  that  I  have  ever — smi-ling-ly  beheld. 
But,  honestly,  Uncle  Tom,  suppose  there  was  a  suit — a 
suit,  mind  you — " 

"  C-c-c-cut  the  cards,"  yelled  Charley. 

"  A  suit,"  continued  the  implacable  Billy,  "  that  you 
were  prosecuting — " 

"  Wished  to  establish,  you  mean." 

"Yes,  a  suit — " 

"Uncle  Tom,"  cried  Charley,  almost  upsetting  the 
table,  "  I  give  it  up.  'Twas  an  idiotic  play  I  made." 

Billy  threw  back  his  head  so  that  it  rested  on  Char 
ley's  shoulder.  "  When,"  asked  he,  under  cover  of  the 
feneral  laughter, — "  when  are  you  going  to  cut  your 
nger  again  ?" 

Just  then  Mr.  Whacker  appeared  at  the  window  and 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  241 

gave  three  brisk  raps,  and  the  girls  went  scampering 
out  on  the  piazza,  followed  by  the  gentlemen,  the  Don 
bringing  up  the  rear.  There  was  a  general  waving  of 
handkerchiefs,  and  the  telescope  passed  from  hand  to 
hand. 

"  There  they  all  are,"  cried  Alice,  cheerily,  peering 
through  the  glass  with  one  eye  and  smiling  brightly 
with  the  other:  "Lucy  and  Mrs.  Poythress  on  the 
back  seat,  her  young  brother  and  Mr.  Poythress  in 
front.  They  see  us  now, — there  go  the  handkerchiefs  ! 
Ah,  just  look  at  little  Laura,  sitting  in  Lucy's  lap  and 
waving  for  dear  life !  Here,  Mary,  take  a  look.  How 
distinctly  you  see  them !" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary ;  but  with  the  eye  which  seemed 
to  be  gazing  through  the  telescope  she  saw  nothing, 
while  with  the  other  she  took  in  every  motion  of  the 
Don.  He  was  striding  with  irregular  steps  up  and 
down  the  piazza,  now  mechanically  waving  his  hand 
kerchief,  now  thrusting  it  back  into  his  pocket;  at  one 
time,  as  he  stopped,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  floor;  at 
another  rolling  with  a  kind  of  glare  as  he  started  sud 
denly  forward.  He  strode  past  her,  and  his  arm  grazed 
her  shoulder.  She  shivered.  Had  her  companions  ob 
served  it  ?  She  gave  a  quick  glance,  and  was  reassured. 
They  were  all  waving  in  frantic,  girlish  glee,  in  re 
sponse  to  the  vigorous  demonstrations  across  the  Kiver. 
The  rainbow  knew  not  of  the  neighboring  thunder-cloud. 

"  What  a  terrible  love,"  she  mused.  "  But,  oh,  to 
have  inspired  it!"  He  had  not  yet  had  the  glass  in 
his  hand  ;  she  would  offer  it  to  him.  "Woman  alone  is 
capable  of  such  self-sacrifice.  She  turned  towards  him 
as  he  was  passing  again,  and,  though  a  glance  at  his 
dark  face  almost  unnerved  her,  she  stood  in  his  path 
and  offered  him  the  glass.  A  surprise  was  in  store  for 
her.  Brought  to  himself,  he  looked  startled  at  first,  as 
though  suddenly  realizing  who  stood  before  him ;  and 
then,  sudden  as  a  flash  of  light,  there  came  into  his 
eyes  a  look  so  gentle  and  tender  as  to  set  her  heart 
violently  beating.  Such  a  look,  she  felt,  would  have 
been  a  declaration  of  love  in  any  other  man, — but  in 
an  enigma? 

L          q  21 


242  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  Take  a  look  through  the  telescope,"  baid  sLe,  in  a 
voice  scarcely  audible. 

He  raised  the  glass  to  his  eye. 

"  Lucy  is  on  this  side,"  said  she,  "  with  Laura  in  her 
lap." 

Her  eyes  were  riveted  upon  his  face  now.  What  a 
change  had  come  over  it  I 

"  Her  mother  sits  next  her ;  can't  you  make  out  her 
white  hair?" 

The  strong  man's  lips  quivered. 

"  She  is  dressed  in  black ;  can't  you  see  ?" 

His  grasp  tightened  on  the  glass. 

"  She  dresses  always  in  black." 

The  telescope  began  to  tremble. 

Just  then  Charley  brushed  quickly  past  her  and 
stood  beside  the  Don. 

"That's  not  the  way  to  use  one  of  these  long  Toms," 
interposed  he,  with  quiet  decision.  "They  need  a  rest. 
Here,  take  this  pillar." 

With  a  bow  of  acknowledgment  the  Don  obeyed. 

Mary's  eyes  followed  Charley  with  a  searching  look, 
as  he  carelessly  sauntered  off  to  the  other  end  of  the 
piazza,  muttering  half  a  dozen  notes  of  a  popular  song; 
but  his  serene  face  gave  no  sign. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

FRIDAY  came,  and  the  Poythresses,  having  missed 
the  Leicester  Christmas  festivities,  were  to  dine  with 
us  that  day.  In  the  evening  there  was  to  be  (no  won 
der  my  grandfather  was  out  on  the  porch  a  dozen  times, 
looking  for  the  first  oar-splash  on  the  other  side) — in  the 
evening  there  was  to  be  a  quintet;  and  Mr.  Whacker, 
who  was  as  proud  of  Lucy  as  though  she  were  his  own 
daughter,  was  eager  to  exhibit  her  prowess  to  the 
stranger.  It  must  not  be  supposed,  from  my  silence 
on  this  point,  that  we  had  had  no  music  since  Mr. 
Whacker's  discovery  what  a  treasure  he  had  in  the 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  243 

Don.  During  this  period  we  bad  had  quartets,  duets, 
solos  innumerable.  Christmas  times,  in  fact,  as  under 
stood  at  Elmington,  had  irresistible  charms  for  Herr 
Waldteufel ;  and  he  had  hardly  left  us  for  an  hour. 

And  now  the  company  at  Elmington  stood  on  the 
piazza  watching  the  boat  that,  with  measured  stroke, 
approached  the  foot  of  the  lawn. 

"  How  charming  to  sail  forth  in  a  boat  to  dine !"  said 
Aliee. 

"  And  then  the  moonlight  row  home,"  added  Mary ; 
"  it  suggests  Venice." 

As  the  boat  neared  the  landing,  there  was  a  general 
movement  from  the  piazza  to  meet  the  coming  guests, 
my  grandfather  leading  the  way.  He  had  not  made 
many  steps  before  he  looked  about  him,  and  seeing  the 
Don  bringing  up  the  rear,  he  slackened  his  pace.  Tho 
Don  came  up  biting  his  nails  vigorously,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  ground,  but  from  time  to  time  glancing 
nervously  in  the  direction  of  the  boat. 

"  We  have  invited  the  whole  family,  old  and  young," 
began  Mr.  Whacker. 

Mary,  just  in  fi*ont,  was  drinking  in  with  upturned 
face  the  soft  nothings  of  some  young  man ;  but  she 
chanced  to  turn  her  head  sufficiently  to  catch  the  start 
with  which  the  Don  aroused  himself  from  his  revery 
at  these  words  of  his  host. 

"I  thought  you  would  like  to  see  little  Laura,  too." 

"Ah,  yes,  little  Laura;  it  was  very  thoughtful  of 
you." 

"Have  you  ever  heard  the  little  thing  sing?  Upon 
my  word,  she  promises  to  rival  Lucy's  talent  for  music. 
They  get  it  from  their  mother.  But  here  they  are." 
And  the  old  gentleman  advanced  with  all  the  briskness 
of  hospitality,  if  not  of  youth.  Charley  leaned  for 
ward,  lifted  Laura  from  the  boat,  and,  kissing  her, 
placed  her  upon  the  ground. 

"  Where  is  he?"  cried  she;  "I  don't  see  him."  And 
she  looked  from  face  to  face  with  shining  eagerness. 
"Yonder  he  is,"  and  away  she  skipped.  "Here  he  is," 
she  shouted,  twining  her  arms  around  his  knees ;  "  here 
is  Don  Miff,  sister  Lucy." 


244  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

There  was  a  general  smile,  and  he  stooped  and  kissed 
her  several  times. 

"  And  here  is  Mr.  Fat-Whacker,  sister  Lucy,"  cried 
she,  running  up  and  taking  my  hand. 

"  Sister  Lucy,"  her  right  hand  held  by  one  gentle 
man,  her  left  by  another,  stood  at  this  moment  one  foot 
on  a  seat,  the  other  on  the  gunwale  of  the  boat,  bal 
ancing  herself  for  a  spring.  It  is  certain  that  the  color 
rose  in  her  cheeks;  but  that  may  have  been  due  to  the 
rocking  of  the  boat.  Sister  Lucy  steadied  herself  for 
the  leap. 

"  Mr.  Fat-Whacker,"  began  our  merry  tattler,  address 
ing  herself  to  the  Don,  "  is  the  one — " 

Lucy,  remembering  Richmond  and  Laura's  side-walk 
confidences  to  the  Don,  on  the  occasion  of  her  first  in 
terview  with  him,  gave  Mr.  Fat-Whacker,  as  she  sprang 
from  the  boat,  a  quick,  appalled  glance.  He  was  equal 
to  the  occasion.  "  Yes,"  cried  he,  seizing  the  explana 
tory  cherub  and  tossing  he'r  high  in  the  air,  "  here's 
Mr.  Fat-Whacker;  and  here,"  he  added,  with  another 
toss,  "  is  Mr.  Uncle  Whacker ;  and  here,"  he  continued, 
raising  her  at  arm's  length  above  his  head  and  holding 
her  there  while  he  made  at  her  some  of  those  faces  that 
were  her  delight,  "  here  is  everybody  I" 

Lucy  gave  Mr.  F.-W.  a  glance,  as  she  hurried  past 
him  to  shake  hands  with  the  Don,  that  he  thought  was 

frateful ;  and  he  was  stooping  slightly  to  pat  his  little 
enefactress  on  the  head,  when  he  was  sent  whirling 
by  a  blow  against  the  shoulder  like  that  of  a  battering- 
ram. 

It  appears  that  Mrs.  Poythress,  during  the  merry, 
confusion  wrought  by  her  little  daughter,  whether  in 
her  eagerness  to  shake  hands  with  the  man  who,  as 
she  felt,  had  saved  Lucy's  life,  or  else  thinking  that  she 
needed  no  assistance,  had  attempted  to  alight  from  the 
boat  unaided ;  but  tripping,  in  some  way,  she  was  fall 
ing  at  full  length  upon  the  frozen  ground.  The  Don 
saw  her  danger.  He  was  almost  six  feet  awuy  from 
the  boat,  my  shoulder  was  in  the  way,  and  Lucy's  fair 
hand  was  extended, — had  touched  his  in  fact, — when 
he  sprang  forward.  'Twas  the  spring  of  a  leopard,— 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  245 

as  swift  and  as  unerring.  Crouching,  he  alighted  be 
neath  her  before  she  reached  the  ground,  caught  her 
as  though  she  had  been  a  ball,  and  springing  to  one 
side  lightly  as  a  cat,  placed  her  feet,  without  a  jar,  upon 
the  ground. 

"Are  you  much  hurt?"  asked  he,  with  a  singular 
mixture  of  respectful  deference  and  eager  interest. 

Women,  whether  old  or  young,  generally  form  their 
opinion  of  a  man  during  the  first  five  minutes  of  their 
acquaintance.  Mrs.  Poythress,  at  least,  was  won  by 
those  few  words,  that  one  look  of  the  stranger,  and 
believed  in  him  from  that  hour. 

"  Our  introduction  has  been  informal,"  said  she,  ex 
tending  her  hand  with  a  smile ;  "  but  you  made  my 
Lucy's  acquaintance  in  a  manner  equally  unconven 
tional.  I  have  long  desired  to  greet  you  and  thank 
you."  And  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  "  I — "  Mrs.  Poy- 
thress  paused.  The  Don  stood  holding  her  hand,  bend 
ing  over  it,  listening,  but -with  eyes  averted  and  cast 
upon  the  ground,  reverence  in  every  curve  of  his  stal 
wart  frame. 

"  You  owe  me  no  thanks,"  said  he,  in  a  low  murmur, 
and  without  raising  his  eyes.  "  Far  from  it." 

A  mysterious  feeling  crept  over  Mrs.  Poythress. 
Was  it  his  eyes?  Was  it  his  voice?  Or  his  manner? 
Was  it  something  ?  Was  it  nothing  ?  "  I  do  feel  rather 
weak.  Perhaps  I  was  a  little  .jarred,"  said  she ;  "  may 
I  lean  on  your  strong  arm?"  Bending  low,  he  offered 
her  his  arm  as  a  courtier  would  to  a  queen,  but  without 
the  courtier's  smile ;  and  they  moved  slowly  towards 
the  house. 

"  He  is  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school,"  thought  Mr. 
Whacker. 

"One  would  think,"  mused  Mary,  "that  he  was 
already  an  accepted  son-in-law." 

"  A  case  of  nubbin,"  chirped  Alice  (a  phrase  I  leave 
as  a  kind  of  sample  bone  of  contention  to  the  philolo 
gists  of  your  day,  my  boy).  She  was  leaning  on 
Charley's  arm,  and  raised  her  eyes  inquiringly.  "  Some 
how,  though,"  added  she,  interpreting  his  silence  as  dis 
sent,  "  somehow,  I  don't  altogether  believe  so." 

21* 


246  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

No  reply. 

She  looked  up  again,  and  detected  a  faintly  rippling 
smile  struggling  with  the  lines  of  his  well-schooled  fea 
tures.  He  had  heard  her,  then, — and  half  amused, 
half  indignant,  she  gave  his  arm  so  sudden  and  vigo 
rous  a  pull  as  visibly  to  disturb  his  balance. 

"  Why  don't  you  answer  people  ?"  said  she,  a  little 
testily. 

"  You  would  not  have  a  man  hasty?  Is  it  not  best 
to  treat  people's  remarks  as  a  hunter  does  wild  ducks? 
Save  your  ammunition.  Don't  fire  at  the  first  that 
comes ;  wait  till  you  can  bring  down  three  or  four  at  a 
shot.  Besides,  it  is  rude." 

"  Kude  ?" 

"  Yes,  to  interrupt  the  current  of  people's  observa 
tions." 

"  Well,  you  must  interrupt  the  current  of  mine  when 
I  speak  to  you." 

"  The  tr-tr-tr-ouble  is  I'd  rather  hear  you  talk  than 
talk  myself." 

Three  persons,  walking  behind  this  couple,  had  over 
heard  these  words, — to  wit,  Jones,  Jones's  girl,  and  my 
self.  By  Jones's  girl  I  would  be  understood  as  referring 
to  one  of  our  Christmas  party,  through  whose  influence 
Jones  had  been  led  to  infer  that  the  lectures  at  the 
University  immediately  after  Christmas  were  of  com 
paratively  minor  importance.  We  were  all  struck  by 
the  absence  of  banter  in  Charley's  last  remark.  Jones 
looked  at  me,  and  opening  wide  his  eyes,  and  dropping 
his  chin,  formed  his  mouth  into  a  perfect  circle. 

"  The  old  fox  is  caught,"  whispered  he ;  and  taking 
another  look,  "  sure  pop  1"  he  added, — an  inelegant  ex 
pression  which  I  record  with  regret,  and  only  in  the 
interests  of  historic  accuracy.  Jones's  girl,  while  we 
smiled  at  Charley,  had  her  woman's  eyes  on  Alice,  and 
with  raised  brows  and  a  nod  directed  our  attention  to 
her.  Alice  had  obviously  noticed  the  peculiar  tone  of 
Charley's  voice,  and  coyly  dropped  her  eyes.  "Mr. 
Frobisher,"  she  began,  "I  must  beg  your  pardon." 

"  For  what,  pray  ?" 

"For  my  rudeness  in  pulling  your  arm,  just  now  I" 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  247 

"Ob,  don't  speak  of  it,"  and  then  a  merry  twinkle 
coming  into  his  eyes,  "  it  didn't  hurt  a  bit.  I  rather 
liked  it.  D-d-d-d-o  it  again." 

Just  then  Jones  turned  quickly,  and,  with  the  de 
lighted  look  of  a  discoverer,  snapped  his  head,  first  at 
his  girl  and  then  at  me. 

"You  saw  it?" 

His  girl  nodded  assent.  Jones  looked  at  me  inquir 
ing1^ 

"What  was  it?"  I  whispered. 

"He  squeezed  her  hand  with  his  arm, — most  posi 
tively — didn't  he  ?" 

Jones's  girl  looked  assent. 

"  Hard  ?" 

She  nodded  again, — laughter-tears  bedimming  her 
young  eyes. 

"  The  villain  1"  breathed  Billy ;  and  throwing  back 
his  head,  he  showed  two  rows  of  magnificent  teeth, 
while  his  mouth,  though  emitting  no  sound,  went 
through  all  the  movements  of  Homeric  laughter. 

"  Will,"  said  she,  turning  towards  him, — "  Will,"  said 
she,  softly,  as  she  raised  her  eyes  admiringly  to  his 
frank  and  manly  face,  "  you  are  the  greatest  goose  in 
the  world." 

"  And  you  the  dearest  duck  on  earth." 

So,  at  least,  they  seemed  to  me  to  say ;  but  perhaps 
— for  I  admit  that  they  spoke  in  whispers — perhaps 
I  say  this  less  as  a  hearer  than  as  a  Seer. 


CHAPTEK  XL. 

"  WHERE  is  Mr.  Smith  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Carter,  as  she 
helped  the  company  to  soup. 

"Yes,  where  is  he?"  repeated  Mr.  Whacker,  looking 
up  in  surprise.  "  Perhaps  he  does  not  know  that  we 
are  at  dinner." 

"After  conducting  me  to  the  parlor,"  explained  Mrs. 


248  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

Poythress,  "he  excused  himself  and  went  to  his  room. 
I  fancied  he  was  not  very  well." 

"Indeed I"  said  Mr.  Whacker.    "Zip,  you  go — " 

Charley  made  a  motion  to  Moses, — Zip  for  short, — 
and  rising  from  the  table  and  bowing  his  excuses,  he 
left  the  room. 

"  I  am  a  little  afraid,"  continued  Mrs.  Poythress, 
turning  to  me,  who  chanced  to  be  her  nearest  neighbor 
at  table,  "that  your  friend  over-strained  himself  in  that 
tremendous  leap  he  made  to  save  me  from  falling.  I 
am  sure  I  felt  his  arm  tremble  as  we  walked  towards 
the  house.  Then  he  was  so  very  silent.  Is  he  always 
so?" 

"  Generally ;  though  I  do  not  think  it  is  altogether 
natural  to  him.  He  seems  to  constrain  himself  to 
silence  from  some  motive  or  other;  but  every  now  and 
then  he  loses  control  of  himself,  it  would  seem,  and 
breaks  forth  into  a  real  torrent  of  brilliant  talk, — no, 
brilliant  is  not  the  word — though  torrent  is.  When  he 
bursts  forth  in  this  impassioned  way,  he  carries  every 
thing  before  him.  By  the  way,  his  leaping  is  of  the 
same  character.  Do  you  know  I  had  to  change  my 
shoes?  For  when  he  sprang  to  catch  you,  he  actually 
knocked  me  into  the  water." 

"What  eyes  he  has  I  Such  a  concentrated  look  1 
And  no  one,"  she  added  after  a  pause,  "  has  any  idea 
who  he  is?" 

"  Not  the  slightest." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  What  a  number  of  strange  people 
your  dear  old  grandfather  has  contrived  to  bring  to 
Elmington  from  time  to  time!  Where  he  has  found 
them  all,  or  how  they  have  found  him,  has  always  been 
a  mystery  to  me." 

"  Yes,  but  the  Don  is  not  one  of  grandfather's  cap 
tures.  Charley  must  have  the  credit  of  bringing  him 
in." 

"  Then  he  is  a  good  man,"  replied  she,  with  decision. 
"  Charley  never  makes  any  mistakes.  But  here  comes 
Master  Charles." 

Every  one  looked  up  on  Charley's  entrance.  As  for 
that  young  man,  he  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  to 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  249 

the  left.  "  Mr.  Smith  will  be  down  presently,"  said  he 
to  Mrs.  Carter.  As  he  strode  around  the  room  to  take 
his  chair,  his  firm-set  lips  wore  a  rather  dogged  ex 
pression,  as  though  he  would  warn  us  all  that,  so  far 
as  he  was  concerned,  the  conversation  was  ended ;  and, 
hastily  taking  his  seat,  he  began  a  vigorous  attack  on 
his  soup,  as  if  to  overtake  the  rest  of  the  company. 
Somehow  every  one  was  silent,  and  the  isolated  and 
rather  rapid  click  of  Charley's  spoon  was  distinctly 
audible.  Alice  smiled,  and  conversation  beginning  to 
spring  up  around  the  table,  "I  fear  your  soup  is 
cold,"  she  began. 

"  The  soup  was  cold  ?"  asked  he,  looking  up.  "  I  am 
very  sorry." 

"  I  didn't  say  that,"  replied  she,  quickly.  "  I  re 
marked  that  I  was  afraid  yours  was  cold." 

"Mine?"  asked  he,  looking  puzzled.     "Why?" 

"  You  were  detained  so  long  up-stairs." 

"  Oh !"  said  he,  renewing  the  assault  upon  the  soup. 
"You  are  right,"  he  added;  "it  is  rath erish  cool." 

Alice  was  foiled.  "  I  believe  Mrs.  Poythress  called 
you." 

Charley  leaned  forward. 

"  Nothing  serious,  I  hope  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Poythress, 

All  eyes  were  fixed  on  Charley,  every  ear  intent  to 
hear  his  answer  to  this  question,  which  Mrs.  Poy 
thress  alone  had  ventured  to  ask.  For  a  moment  this 
master  of  fence  and  parry  stood  confounded ;  but  only 
for  a  moment.  "Nothing  to  speak  of,"  replied  he, 
with  careless  simplicity,  and,  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
he  glanced  at  Uncle  Dick.  Richard,  briskly,  though 
with  averted  face,  came  to  remove  the  soup-plate,  and 
then  hurried  out  of  the  room  to  have  a  quiet  chuckle. 

"  Tain't  no  use,  Polly ;  dey  jess  as  well  let  Marse 
Charles  alone.  He  is  a  keener,  he  is,  urngh — umgh ! 
Dey  ain't  gwine  to  git  nothin'  out  o'  him,  ef  you  b'lieve 
Dick,  dey  ain't,  mun."  And  the  old  worthy's  sides 
shook  with  laughter.  "  Dey  has  been  tetchin'  her  up 
pretty  lively  dis  mornin',  dat's  a  fac',  and  dey  wet 
Dick's  whistle  for  him,  dey  did,  ef  you  b'lieve  me,  and 
more'n  once,  too.  Well, 


250  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

1  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year, 
Den  every  nigger  git  his  shear.' 

Hurry  up,  gal !  hurry  up  !" 

"Don't  come  round  me,  boy,  wid  your  '  hurry  up, 
hurry  up.'  Don't  you  see  I'se  hurryin'  up  all  I  kin 
hurry  up  already  ?  I  b'lieve  you  is  drunk,  anyhow  1" 

"  Pretty  close  to  it,  thank  de  Lord. 

'  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year, 
Every  nigger — '  " 

"  I  tell  you  git  out  o'  dis  kitchen,  and  mind  you 
don't  fall  and  break  dat  dish,  wid  your  '  Christmas 
comes  but  once  a  year.'  Go  'long,  boy.  Dat  ham's 
seven  years  old,  and  you  jess  let  it  fall !" 

"  Hi !"  thought  Uncle  Dick,  as  he  entered  the  dining- 
room.  "  What's  he  doin'  at  de  table  ?" 

Richard  was  surprised. 

For,  as  I  am  pained  to  have  to  say,  the  Virginians 
had  in  those  days  the  very  irrational  habit  of  drinking 
before  dinner ;  and  it  was  to  this  fact  that  Uncle  Dick 
alluded  in  the  somewhat  figurative  language  recorded 
above.  If  the  truth  must  be  told,  our  venerable  serving- 
man  never  doubted  but  that  the  Don  stayed  up-stairs 
simply  because  he  was  too  drunk  to  come  down.  The 
facts  were  far  otherwise. 

"  Charley,"  said  I  that  night,  as  we  were  smoking 
our  last  pipe,  "  what  was  the  matter  with  the  Don  to 
day  ?  Why  was  he  not  with  us  when  we  sat  down  to 
dinner?" 

"  Because,"  said  Charley,  lazily  lolling  back  in  his 
rocking-chair,  and  sighting  with  one  eye  through  a 
ring  of  smoke  that  he  had  just  projected  from  his 
mouth, — "  because  he  was  in  his  room." 

"  Another  word,  and  Solomon's  fame  perishes." 

"  It  is  a  well-known  physical  law"  (Charley  used  to 
avenge  himself  on  me  in  private  for  his  silence  in  gen 
eral  company), — "  it  is  a  well-known  physical  law,"  said 
he,  inserting  his  forefinger  with  great  precision  into  the 
centre  of  the  whirling  ring,  "  that  a  body  cannot  occupy 
two—" 


THE  STORy  OF  DON  MIFF.  251 

"To  be  continued  in  our  next.  But  why  was  he  not 
punctual,  as  usual  ?" 

"Nothing  simpler, — because  he  was  behind  time." 

"  Solon,  Solon  !" 

"Yes,  Sir  William  Hamilton  has  well  observed  that 
it  is  positively  unthinkable  that  the  temporal  limita 
tions  of  two  events  occurring  at  different  times  should 
be  identical.  Let's  have  another  pipe." 

Charley  had  forced  me  to  change  the  subject ;  but  1 
contrived  to  make  the  change  not  very  satisfactory  to 
him.  "  By  the  way,"  I  began,  "  what  were  you  and 
the  charming  Alice  saying  to  one  another  on  your  way 
from  the  landing  to-day  ?" 

Charley  laid  his  half-filled  pipe  on  the  table  and  gave 
a  frightful  yawn.  "Let's  go  to  bed,"  said  he,  and  im 
mediately  began  to  doff  his  clothes  with  surprising 
swiftness. 

"  Two  bodies,"  said  I,  striking  a  match,  "  cannot" 
— Charley  kicked  off  one  boot — "  occupy  the  same 
space" — off  flew  the  other;  "  but,  as  Sir  William  hath 
well  put  it, — or  was  it  some  other  fellow?" — and 
leaning  against  the  end  of  the  mantel-piece,  and  pois 
ing  myself  on  my  elbow,  I  assumed  a  thoughtful  atti 
tude, — "  two  bodies  are  sometimes  fond  of  being  very 
close  together.  Why  this  sudden  and  uncontrollable 
somnolency  ?  Were  we  not  to  have  another  pipe  ?" 
But  not  another  word  could  I  get  out  of  Charley  ;  and 
neai'ly  four  years  passed  by  before  he  gave  me  the  ac 
count  (which  I  will  now  lay  before  the  reader)  of  what 
he  saw  that  day. 

The  Don,  as  we  know,  had  escorted  Mra.  Poythress 
from  the  landing  at  the  foot  of  the  lawn  to  the  house, 
and  had  gone  immediately  to  his  room.  As  she  leaned 
upon  his  arm,  he  had  seemed  to  her  to  be  tremulous ; 
and  a  certain  disorder  in  his  features  as  he  left  the  par 
lor  had  led  her  to  fear  that  he  was  not  well ;  having 
as  she  surmised,  given  himself  an  undue  wrench  in  his 
efforts  to  arrest  her  fall.  Then,  when  the  Don  had 
failed  to  put  in  an  appearance  at  dinner,  Charley  had 
gone  in  person  to  his  room.  To  a  gentle  tap  there  was 
no  reply,  and  successively  louder  knocks  eliciting  no 


252  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

response,  a  vague  sense  of  dread  crept  over  him,  and 
his  hand  shook  as  he  turned  the  knob  and  entered  the 
room.  "Great  God  !"  cried  Charley,  stopping  short,  as 
he  saw  the  Don  stretched  diagonally  across  the  bed, 
his  face  buried  in  a  pillow.  There  he  lay,  still  as  death. 
Was  he  dead  ?  Charley  hurried  to  the  bedside  with 
agitated  strides,  and  leaning  over  the  prostrate  figure, 
with  lips  apart,  intently  watched  and  listened  for  signs 
of  life.  "Thank  God!"  breathed  Charley.  For  reply 
the  Don,  with  a  sudden  movement,  threw  back  his 
right  arm  obliquely  across  his  motionless  body,  and 
held  out  his  open  hand.  The  released  pillow  fell.  It 
was  wetted  with  tears.  Charley  clasped  the  offered 
hand  with  a  sympathetic  pressure  that  seemed  quite  to 
unnerve  the  Don ;  for  the  iron  grasp  of  his  moist  hand 
was  tempered  by  a  grateful  tenderness,  and  convulsive 
undulations  again  and  again  shook  his  stalwart  frame. 
For  a  while  neither  spoke. 

"  You  will  be  down  to  dinner  presently,  I  hope  ?" 

The  Don  nodded,  and  Charley  crossed  the  room  and 
poured  out  some  water  and  moved  some  towels  in  an 
aimless  sort  of  way. 

"  I'll  go  down  now ;  come  as  soon  as  you  can." 

Another  nod. 

Charley  moved,  half  on  tiptoe,  to  the  door,  and 
placing  his  hand  on  the  knob,  turned  and  looked  at  tho 
Don.  A  sudden  impulse  seized  him  as  he  saw  the 
strong  man  lying  there  on  his  face,  his  arm  still  ex 
tended  along  his  back ;  and  hurrying  to  the  bedside, 
he  bent  over  him,  and  taking  the  open  hand  in  both  his, 
with  one  fervent  squeeze  released  it  and  hastened  out 
of  the  room.  But  he  had  not  reached  the  door  before 
there  broke  upon  his  ear  a  sound  that  made  him  shiver. 

It  was  a  sob. 

One  I — No  more !  It  was  a  sound  such  as  we  do  not 
often  hear  and  can  never  forget, — the  sob  of  a  strong 
man,  bursting,  hoarse,  guttural,  discordant,  from  an 
over-wrought  heart, — a  stern,  proud  heart  that  would 
stifle  the  cry  of  its  bitterness,  but  may  not.  A  look, — 
a  word, — the  touch  of  a  friendly  hand, — has  sufficed  to 
unprison  the  floods. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  253 

So,  once,  the  dimpled  finger  of  childhood  pressed  the 
electric  key ;  and  the  primeval  rocks  of  Hell-Gate 
bounded  into  the  air. 


CHAPTEE  XLI. 

CHARLEY  hurried  along  the  upper  hall,  and  arriving 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  blew  his  nose  three  times  with 
a  certain  fierce  defiance.  This  strictly  commonplace 
operation  he  repeated  in  a  subdued  form  as  he  neared 
the  dining-room  door,  and  stopping  again,  with  one 
hand  upon  the  knob,  he  passed  the  other  again  and 
again  across  his  forehead  and  eyes,  as  though  he  had 
been  an  antiquated  belle  who  would  smooth  out  the 
wrinkles  before  entering  a  ball-room.  Then,  with  that 
severe  look  of  determined  reticence  of  which  I  have 
spoken  above,  he  entered  the  dining-room  ;  exciting  in 
all  breasts,  male  and  female  alike,  a  keen  but  hopeless 
curiosity.  This  feeling,  however,  soon  subsided ;  for  the 
Don  had  entered  shortly  after  Charley,  and,  begging 
Mrs.  Carter  to  excuse  his  tardiness,  had  taken  his  seat 
and  passed  out  of  our  minds.  For  besides  that  the 
dinner  was  good  and  the  wines  generous,  most  of  us  had 
our  own  little  interests  to  look  after.  -Jones,  for  ex 
ample,  and  Jones's  girl  were  too  happy  to  care  whether 
any  one  in  the  world  were  late  or  early  for  dinner. 
My  grandfather,  Mrs.  Carter,  and  myself  were  suffi 
ciently  occupied  as  hosts, — and  Charley,  too,  though  he 
devoted  his  time  principally  to  one  guest.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  therefore,  during  the  early  part  of  the  dinner 
the  Don  sat  unobserved  by  the  greater  part  of  the  com 
pany  ;  and  but  for  one  faithful  pair  of  eyes,  I  should 
have  had  nothing  to  record. 

In  the  spirit  of  mischief,  Alice  had  so  manoeuvred 
that  the  seat  left  vacant  for  the  Don  was  between  Lucy 
tind  little  Laura.  "  Won't  it  be  sweet,  mother,  to  see 
••ill  three  of  them  in  a  row, — Lucy — Mr.  Don  Miff — 
Laura?  Quite  a  little  family  party!" 

"  Yery  well,"  replied  Lucy,  laughing,  "  arrange  it  as 
22 


254  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

you  will ;  I  am  sure  I  should  like  very  well  to  sit  by 
4  the  Don.'     Do  you  still  call  him  by  that  name?" 

"  Of  course.  It  has  a  grand  sound,  and  grand  sounds, 
you  know,  are  precious  to  the  female  heart." 

The  Don's  looks  when  he  entered  were  downcast, 
his  manner  hesitating,  and  his  voice,  when  he  made  his 
apologies  to  Mrs.  Carter,  scarcely  audible.  Charley, 
the  moment  the  Don  entered,  had  begun  stammering 
away  at  Alice  with  a  surprising  volubility,  and  in  a 
voice  loud  for  him.  He  never  stammered  worse ;  and 
such  a  pother  did  he  make  with  his  m's  and  his  p's  that 
he  drew  upon  himself  the  smiling  attention  of  all  the 
company ;  so  that  even  Jones  and  his  girl  ceased  mur 
muring,  for  a  moment,  their  fatuous  nothings.  It  was 
under  cover  of  this  rattling  volley  that  the  Don  had 
taken  his  seat  and  begun  intently  to  examine  the  mono 
gram  on  his  fork. 

"  Will  you  have  some  soup  ?"  asked  Charley,  in  a 
frank,  off-hand  way. 

The  commonplace  nature  of  this  question  was  an 
obvious  relief  to  the  Don,  and  he  raised  his  eyes  and 
looked  about  him.  "Thanks,  no  soup.  What!"  said 
ho,  for  the  first  time  espying  little  Laura  seated  by  his 
side,  "  you  here  by  me  1"  And  taking  her  sunny  head 
between  his  hands,  he  bent  over  and  kissed  her  on  the 
forehead. 

A  mother's  smile  trembled  in  Mrs.  Poythress's  eyes. 
"  She  is  a  very  little  diner-out,"  said  she. 

At  the  sound  of  Mrs.  Poythress's  voice  a  shade  passed 
over  the  Don's  face.  "  He's  the  one,  mumma,  that 
built  me  the  block-houses."  And  the  smile  came  back. 

Mary  watched  the  play  of  the  Don's  features  during 
the  triangular  conversation  that  followed  between  him 
self,  Mrs.  Poythress,  and  Laura,  and  was  much  puzzled. 
Light  and  shadow,  shadow  and  light,  chased  each  other 
over  his  changeful  countenance  like  patches  of  cloud 
across  a  sunny  landscape.  Presently,  chancing  to  turn 
his  head,  his  eyes  full  upon  Lucy,  seated  on  his  right, 
and  Mary's  interest  grew  deeper. 

"  You  on  my  right  and  Laura  on  my  left !  I  feel 
that  I  am  indeed  among  friends." 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  255 

"  You  may  be  sure  of  that,"  said  Lucy,  in  her  low 
and  sweet,  but  earnest  voice. 

The  Don's  pleasure  at  finding  that  Lucy  was  his 
neighbor  at  table  was  very  obvious,  and  we  must  not 
blame  Mary  if  it  gave  her  a  pang  to  see  it.  She  could 
not  but  recall  the  stranger's  manifest  interest  in  Lucy 
when  he  first  met  her,  at  breakfast,  in  Richmond. 
Then  she  had  not  cared.  Now  it  was  different.  For 
the  next  half-hour,  while  contributing  her  share  to 
the  conversation  at  her  end  of  the  table,  she  had  man 
aged  to  see  everything  that  took  place  between  the 
Don  and  Lucy.  She  saw  everything,  and  yet  she 
seemed  to  herself  to  see  nothing.  The  meaning  of  it 
all — that  she  could  not  unravel.  All  she  knew  was 
that  she  was  miserable;  and  her  wretchedness  made 
her  unjust.  She  was  vexed  at  Lucy, — vexed  for  the 
strangest  of  reasons ;  but  the  human  heart — if  the  pla 
giarism  may  be  pardoned — is  full  of  inconsistencies. 
Had  Lucy  made  eyes  at  the  Don,  coquetted  with  him, 
Mary  would  doubtless  have  thought  it  unkind  on  her 
part;  though  that  would  have  been  unjust,  as  Lucy 
had  no  cause  to  suspect  that  her  friend  felt  any  special 
interest  in  the  mysterious  stranger.  It  was  the  entire 
absence  of  everything  of  this  kind  in  Lucy's  manner 
that  nettled  Mary.  In  her  eyes  the  Don  was  a  hero 
of  the  first  water.  Why  didn't  Lucy  try  to  weave  fas 
cinations  around  such  an  one  as  he?  What  kind  of  a 
man  was  she  looking  for  ?  Did  she  expect  the  whole 
world  to  fall  at  her  feet,  whence  to  choose  ? — or  did 
she,  perhaps, — and  the  thought  shot  through  her  heart 
with  a  keen  pang, — did  Lucy  feel  that  the  quarry  was 
hers  without  an  effort  on  her  part  to  grasp  it? 

The  Don's  deportment,  too,  if  incomprehensible,  was 
at  least  irritating.  "His  lordship,"  thought  she,  bit 
terly,  "  has  hardly  vouchsafed  me  a  glance  since  he 
took  his  seat.  Yet,  before  the  Poythresses  came — there 
he  sits  now,  patting  Laura's  head  in  an  absent  way, 
and  studying  Lucy's  features,  as  she  talks,  as  though 
he  were  a  portrait-painter.  One  would  think  he  had 
quietly  adopted  the  entire  Poythress  family.  Upon 
my  word.  Mr.  Sphinx  is  a  marvel  of  coolness !  How 


256  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

little  he  talks,  too! — and  yet  he  has  contrived  to  bring 
Lucy  out  wonderfully.  She  is  rattling  away  like  a 
child,  telling  him  about  herself  and  all  the  family. 
How  interested  he  seems !  Heavens,  what  a  look !" 

"  Yes,"  she  had  heard  Lucy  say,  "  Laura  is  a  regular 
Poythress,  with  her  high  color  and  golden  hair;  mine 
is  just  like  mother's.  I  don't  mean  now,"  said  she, 
with  a  little  laugh  and  glancing  at  Mrs.  Poythress's 
snow-white  hair;  "but  mother's  was  coal-black  once. 
It  turned  white — years  ago — suddenly ;"  and  she 
sighed  softly,  with  downcast,  pensive  eyes,  so  that  she 
did  not  observe  the  look  of  pain  that  her  words  had 
wrought  a^nd  that  had  startled  Mary.  Looking  up  and 
seeing  his  face  averted,  Lucy  thought  he  was  admiring 
her  little  sister's  curls.  "  What  beautiful  hair  Laura 
has !" 

"  Lovely,"  replied  he,  tossing  a  mass  of  ringlets  on 
the  tips  of  his  fingers. 

"Won't  you  make  me  a  boat,  after  dinner,  with 
rudder  and  sails  and  everything?"  And  Laura  looked 
up  into  his  troubled  face  with  a  confiding,  sunny  smile. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

AT  last,  the  ladies  rose  to  leave  the  table. 

"As  soon,  Mrs.  Carter,  as  the  gentlemen  have  had  a 
cigar  or  so,"  said  Mr.  Whacker,  "  we  shall  have  the 
honor  of  joining  the  ladies  in  the  parlor  and  of  escort 
ing  you  to  the  Hall,  where  we  shall  have  some  music." 

"  But  when  he  hears  her  play !"  thought  Mary,  as 
she  left  the  room,  arm  in  arm  with  her  dreaded  rival. 

"I  drink  your  health,"  cried  the  Herr,  dropping 
down  into  his  chair  as  soon  as  the  ladies  had  left  the 
room.  "  I  drink  your  very  good  health,"  said  he,  filling 
the  Don's  glass.  Of  course  he  pronounced  the  words 
after  his  own  fashion. 

One  would  err  who  supposed  that  Herr  Waldteufel 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  257 

felt  any  unusual  anxiety  as  to  the  physical  condition 
of  his  neighbor.  A  decanter  of  sherry  invariably 
wrought  in  his  responsive  mind  a  general  but  quite 
impartial  interest  in  the  well-being  of  all  his  friends. 
But  on  this  occasion  Mr.  Whacker  was  particularly 
anxious  that  some  limit  should  be  put  to  the  expression 
of  that  solicitude ;  and  he  checked  with  a  glance  the 
zealous  hospitality  of  Uncle  Dick,  who  was  about  to 
replenish  the  nearly  exhausted  decanters. 

For  this  was  to  be  a  field  day  over  at  the  Hall. 
There  was  to  be  a  quintet, — think  of  that, — and  a  pint 
or  so  more  sherry  might  disable  the  'cello. 

My  grandfather  bad  been  looking  forward  to  this 
glorious  occasion  with  nervous  joy.  It  bad  been  sev 
eral  years  since  he  had  taken  part  in  so  august  a  per 
formance  ;  and  before  the  first  cigars  were  half  burned 
out  he  had  begun  to  fidget  and  look  at  his  watch. 
Charley,  therefore,  was  not  long  in  proposing  a  move. 

"Now,  ladies,"  said  my  grandfather,  on  reaching  the 
parlor,  "  I,  for  one,  cannot  understand  how  it  is  that 
there  are  some  people  who  don't  love  music ;  but  there 
are  such  people,  and  very  good  people  they  are,  too. 
Now,  this  is  Liberty  Hall,  and  every  one  must  do  as 
he  pleases.  We  are  going  to  make  some  music;  but 
no  one  need  go  with  us  who  prefers  remaining  here. 
If  there  are  any  couples,  for  instance,"  —  and  Mr. 
Whacker  raised  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling — "  who  have 
softer  things  to  say  than  any  our  instruments  can  pro 
duce"  (Jones  and  his  girl  looked  unconscious),  "  let 
them  remain  and  say  them.  Hero  is  the  parlor,  there 
is  the  dining  room ;  arrange  yourselves  as  you  would. 
And  now,  Mrs.  Poythress,  will  you  take  my  arm  and 
lead  the  way  ?" 

Jones  and  Jones's  girl  were  the  first  to  move,  and  we 
were  soon  on  our  way  across  the  lawn ;  while  dark 
cohorts  brought  up  the  rear  and  covered  the  flanks  of 
the  merry  column. 

"  To  me !"  said  Mary,  when  the  Don  had  offered  her 
his  arm.  "  I  feel  much  honored."  And  with  a  formal 
bow  she  rested  the  tips  of  her  fingers  upon  his  sleeve. 

The  irony  of  her  tones  grated  upon  his  ear,  and  he 
r  22* 


258  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

turned  quickly  and  bent  upon  her  a  puzzled  though 
steady  gaze. 

"Honored?" 

That  look  of  honest  surprise  reassured  her  woman's 
heart,  but  made  her  feel  that  she  had  forgotten  herself 
in  meeting  a  courtesy  with  an  incivility. 

They  always  know  just  what  to  do. 

Passing  her  arm  farther  within  his,  and  leaning 
upon  him  with  a  coquettish  pressure,  she  looked  up 
with  a  gracious  smile. 

"  Certainly.  Have  I  not  the  arm  of  the  primo  vio- 
lino, — the  lion  of  the  evening?" 

And  the  primo  violino  wondered  how  on  earth  he 
had  ever  imagined  that  she  was  vexed. 

Very  naturally,  I  cannot  remember,  after  the  lapse 
of  years,  what  quintet  they  played  that  evening.  All 
that  I  distinctly  recall  is  that  it  was  a  composition  in 
which  the  piano  was  very  prominent.  My  grandfather 
was  (as  I  have,  perhaps,  said  before)  as  proud  of  Lucy's 
playing  as  though  she  had  been  his  own  daughter;  and 
I  suspect  that  he  and  the  Herr  made  the  selection  with 
a  view  to  showing  her  off. 

Mary  thought  she  had  never  seen  Lucy  look  so 
graceful  as  when,  sounding  "A,"  she  turned  upon  the 
piano-stool,  and,  with  her  arm  extended  backwards 
and  her  fingers  resting  upon  the  keys,  she  gave  the 
note  to  each  of  the  players  in  turn  ;  her  usually  serene 
face  lit  with  the  enthusiasm  of  expectancy.  It  was  a 
truly  lovely  face, — lovely  at  all  times,  but  peculiarly  so 
when  suifused  with  a  certain  soul-lit  St.  Cecilia  look  it 
wore  at  times  like  this.  Alice  sparkled,  and  Mary 
shone ;  but  Lucy  glowed, — glowed  with  the  half-hidden 
fire  of  fervid  affections  and  high  and  holy  thoughts. 
Alice  was  a  bounding,  bubbling  fountain,  Mary  a  swift- 
flowing  river,  Lucy  a  still  lake  glassing  the  blue 
heavens  in  its  unknown  depths.  Wit — imagination — 
soul. 

It  chanced  that  the  piano  had  to  open  the  piece 
alone,  the  other  instruments  coming  in  one  after 
another.  Nervously  smoothing  down  her  music  with 
both  hands,  rather  pale  and  tremulous,  Lucy  began. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  259 

"Why,"  thought  Mary,"  gazing  with  still  intensity 
from  out  the  isolated  corner  in  which  she  had  seated 
herself, — "  why  does  he  look  so  anxious?" 

For,  coming  to  a  rapid  run,  Lucy  had  stumbled  bad 
ly,  and  the  Don  .was  pulling  nervously  at  his  tawny 
beard.  But  soon  recovering  her  self-possession,  she  ex 
ecuted  a  difficult  passage  with  ease  and  brilliancy. 
"Brava!  brava!"  cried  he,  encouragingly,  while  the 
Herr  nodded  and  smiled.  As  for  my  grandfather,  a 
momentary  side-flash  of  delight  was  all  he  could  spare 
the  lovely  young  pianist ;  for  with  eyes  intently  fixed 
upon  his  score,  and  head  bobbing  up  and  down,  he  was 
in  mortal  dread  of  coming  in  at  the  wrong  time.  With 
him  the  merest  nod  of  approval,  by  getting  entangled 
with  the  nod  rhythmic,  might  well  have  introduced  a 
fatal  error  into  his  counting,  while  even  an  encouraging 
smile  was  not  without  its  dangers. 

Mrs.  Poythress  gave  the  Don  a  grateful  smile. 

"  He  seems  to  be  taking  Lucy  under  his  protection," 
thought  Mary. 

One  after  another  the  players  came  in ;  first  the  Don 
and  Herr  Waldteufel,  then  the  second  and  the  viola ; 
and  away  they  went,  each  after  his  own  fashion ; 
Charley  pulling  away  with  close,  business-like  atten 
tion  to  his  notes ;  the  Herr  calm  but  smiling  good- 
humoredly,  when,  from  time  to  time,  he  stumbled 
through  rapid  passages  where  his  reading  was  better 
than  his  execution  ;  Mr.  Whacker  struggling  manfully, 
with  flushed  cheeks  and  eager  eyes,  and  beating  time 
with  his  feet  with  rather  unprofessional  vigor.  As  for 
Lucy,  relieved  of  her  embarrassment,  when  fire  had 
opened  all  along  the  line,  she  made  the  Herr  proud  of 
his  pupil ;  while  the  Don,  master  of  his  score  and  his 
instrument,  kept  nodding  and  smiling  as  he  played ; 
watching  her  nimble  fingers,  during  the  pauses  of  his 
part,  with  undisguised  satisfaction. 

Mary,  sitting  apart,  saw  all  this.     Nor  Mary  alone. 

"  He  is  a  goner !"  whispered  Billy  to  his  girl,  in  ob 
jectionable  phrase. 

"Oh,  yes;  hopelessly!"  looked  she. 

"  Mr.  Probisher,  too, — he's  another  goner." 


260  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

The  beloved  of  "William  glanced  at  Charley  and  bit 
her  lip.  Somehow  it  seemed  comic  to  every  one  that 
Charley  should  be  in  love. 

Then  Billy,  folding  his  arms  across  his  deep  chest, 
and  summoning  his  mind  to  a  vast  generalization  : 
"  The  fact  is,  everybody  is  a  goner,"  said  he ;  "  as  for 
me—" 

His  girl  placed  her  finger  upon  her  rosy  lip,  and  re 
proved  his  chattering  with  a  frown  that  was  very,  very 
fierce ;  but  from  beneath  her  darkling  brows  there 
stole,  as  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  manly  face,  a  glance 
soft  as  the  breath  of  violets  from  under  a  hedge  of 
thorns. 

The  allegro  moderato  came  to  an  end  with  the  usual 
twang  twing  twang. 

"  Unt  we  came  out  all  togedder!"  exclaimed  the 
Herr.  "Dot  is  someding  already.  Shentlemen  und 
ladies,  I  tell  you  a  little  story,  vot  you  call.  Ber 
lioz  was  once  leading  an  orchestra,  part  professionals, 
part  amateurs.  Yen  dey  vas  near  de  ent  of  de  stucko 
vot  you  call  morceau,  '  Halt,  shentlemens !'  cry  Berlioz, 
rapping  on  the  bulbit — desk,  vot  you  call.  '  Now,  shen 
tlemens  amateurs,"  says  he,  'you  just  stop  on  dis  bar  unt 
let  de  oders  blay,  so  dat  we  all  come  out  togedder.'  " 

The  excellent  Herr,  after  laughing  himself  to  the 
verge  of  asphyxiation,  explained  that  "Berlioz,  }~ou 
unterstant,  vas  a  great  vit,  vat  you  call,  unt  make 
many  funny  words."  It  was  a  peculiarity  of  our 
friend  Waldteufel  that  his  pronunciation  of  English 
varied  with  the  amount  of  water  that  he  had  neglected 
to  drink ;  and  as  this  was  an  uncertain  quantity,  you 
could  never  be  quite  sure  whether  he  would  say  vas 
or  was,  words  or  vords.  At  certain  critical  moments, 
too,  when  his  soul  stood  vacillating  between  content 
ment  and  thirst,  the  two  systems  were  apt  to  become 
mixed  as  above.  I  will  add  that  I  make  no  attempt 
at  accuracy  in  reproducing  his  dialect,  preferring  to 
leave  that,  in  part  at  least,  as  I  have  done  in  a  parallel 
case,  to  the  resources  of  the  reader. 

The  remaining  movements  of  the  quintet  were 
played  in  somewhat  smoother  style  j  but  the  only  one 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  261 

requiring  special  mention,  for  our  purposes,  was  the 
larghetto,  or  slow  movement.  In  this  number,  the  tech 
nical  difficulties  of  which  were  inconsiderable,  Lucy's 
tender  religious  spirit  revealed  itself  most  touchingly. 
It  so  happened  that  the  composer  had  placed  this  part 
mainly  in  the  bands  of  the  piano  and  the  first  violin, 
the  other  instruments  merely  giving  an  unobtrusive 
accompaniment.  First  the  violin  gave  out  the  theme, 
and  then  the  piano  made  reply. 

"  It  is  the  communing  of  two  spirits,"  felt  Mary,  in 
her  imaginative  way. 

Now  the  piano  gave  forth  its  tender  plaint,  and  the 
violin  seemed  to  Mary  to  listen ;  at  one  time  silent,  at 
another  interrupting, — assenting  rather, — breaking  into 
low-muttered  interjections  of  harmonious  sympathy. 
And  then  the  violin  would  utter  its  lament,  finding  its 
echo  in  the  broken  ejaculations  that  rose  from  beneath 
Lucy's  responsive  fingers;  so,  at  least,  it  seemed  to 
Mary. 

The  quintet  and  the  congratulations  to  the  per 
formers  over,  Mr.  "Whacker  took  pity  on  the  thirsty 
Herr  and  ordered  refreshments.  Jones,  finding  among 
the  rest  a  glass  of  double  size,  filled  it  and  handed  it 
to  the  'cellist. 

"  G-oot!"  cried  he,  with  a  luminous  wink ;  "  I  play  do 
big  fiddle  already." 

Mary  smiled,  wondering  what  "already"  could  mean  ; 
but  she  had  other  things  to  occupy  her  thoughts.  When 
the  Don  rose  from  his  seat  and  laid  his  violin  upon  the 
piano,  she  had  been  struck  with  the  serenity  of  his 
countenance,  whence  the  music  seemed  to  have  chased 
every  cloud.  He  was  looking  for  some  one.  Yes,  it 
was  for  her.  Catching  her  eye,  he  filled  a  glass,  or  two, 
rather,  and  coming  to  her  side  and  taking  a  seat,  he 
expressed  the  hope  that  she  had  enjoyed  the  music. 

"  More  than  I  can  express.  You  have  convinced  me 
that  I  have  never  heard  any  real  music  before.  Do 
you  know,  your  quintet  was  as  pleasing  to  the  eye  as 
to  the  ear?  You  would  have  afforded  a  fine  subject 
for  a  painter.  Three  young  men,  a  lovely  girl,  and  a 
grandfather,  all  bound  together  as  one  by  the  golden 


262  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

chains  of  harmony!  You  can't  imagine  what  a  lovely 
picture  you  made." 

"Thanks!" 

"  Oh,"  said  she,  smiling,  "  there  were  five  of  you,  so 
I  have  paid  you,  at  best,  but  one-fifth  of  a  compli 
ment." 

"  A  vulgar  fraction,  as  it  were." 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  laughing ;  then  with  eyes  cast  down, 
and  in  a  hesitating  voice,  she  added,  "  I  am  going  to 
make  a  confession  to  you ;  will  you  promise  not  to 
think  me  very  foolish  ?" 

"  Such  an  idea,  I  am  sure — " 

"  But,  you  know  my  friends  all  say  I  am  so  very 
sentimental, — that  is  to  say,  silly.  You  shake  your 
head,  but  that  is  what  they  call  me,  and  that  is  what 
it  means." 

"  You  do  your  friends  injustice ;  but  give  me  a  speci 
men,  that  I  may  judge  for  myself." 

"  Do  you  promise  not  to  agree  with  my  friends  ?" 

"  Most  solemnly." 

"  Well,  you  must  know  there  is  something  very 
pathetic  to  me  about  old  age.  The  sight  of  an  old 
man  sympathizing  with  the  young,  bearing  up  bravely 
under  the  ills  of  life  and  his  load  of  years,  always 
touches  me  to  the  heart.  Now,  you  and  Mr.  Frobisher 
and  Mr.  Waldteufel — well,  I  need  not  comment  on 
your  appearance.  Lucy — well,  Lucy  was  just  too 
lovely.  She  had  what  I  call  her  inspired  look,  and 
was  simply  beautiful."  And  lifting  her  eyes  for  a 
second, — no,  a  second  had  been  an  age,  compared  with 
the  duration  of  that  glance  so  momentary  and  yet  so 
intensely  questioning, — she  flashed  him  through  and 
through.  Through  and  through,  yet  saw  nothing. 
The  Don,  felt  he  or  not  the  shock  of  that  electric 

§  lance,  sat  impassive,  spoke  no  answer,  looked  no  reply, 
he  raised  her  eyes  again  to  his.     No,  his  look  was  not. 
impassive ;  he  was  simply  awaiting  with  interest  the 
rest  of  her  story.      That,  at  least,  was  all  she  could 
see. 

"Where  was  I?"  she  began  again,  driving  from  her 
mind,  with  an  effort,  a  tumultuous  throng  of  hopes 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  263 

and  fears.  "  Oh !  well,  you  gentlemen  handled  your 
bows  gracefully,  of  course,  and  all  that,  and  Lucy  was 
irresistible"  (another  flash),  "  of — course ;  but  the  cen 
tral  figure  of  the  picture  was  Mr.  Whacker.  Dear 
Uncle  Tom !  Isn't  he  a  grand  old  man  ?  I  don't  know 
why  it  was,  but  when  I  saw  in  the  midst  of  you  his 
snowy  head  contrasting  so  strongly,  so  strangely,  with 
Lucy's  youthful  bloom,  with  the  manly  vigor  of  the 
rest,  my  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Was  it  so  very  fool 
ish  ?"  And  her  eyes,  as  she  lifted  them  to  his,  half 
inquiring,  half  deprecatory,  were  suffused  afresh  with 
the  divine  dew  of  sympathy. 

"  Foolish !"  exclaimed  the  Don,  with  a  vehemence 
so  sudden  that  it  made  her  start,  his  nostrils  dilating 
and  a  dark  flush  mounting  even  to  his  forehead, — 
"  foolish !"  And  bending  over  her  he  poured  down 
into  her  swimming  eyes  a  look  so  intense  and  search- 
iug  that  she  felt  that  he  was  reading  her  very  heart. 

"  Thanks !"  said  he,  with  abrupt  decision.   "  Thanks !" 

Mary  breathed  quicker,  she  knew  not  why.  The 
tension  was  painful.  "Yes,"  said  she,  rather  aimlessly, 
"  and  then  you  all  looked  so  earnest,  so  serenely  happy, 
so  forgetful  of  this  poor  sordid  world." 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  musingly,  "  that  seems  to  me  the 
office  of  music, — to  give  rest  to  the  weary,  to  smooth 
out  the  wrinkles  from  the  brain  and  brow,  to  give  re 
spite  ;  to  enable  us,  for  a  time,  at  least,  to  forget." 

He  seemed  to  muse  for  a  moment,  then  turning  sud 
denly  to  her  with  a  changed  expression  :  "  It  was  always 
so,"  said  he;  then  looking  up  quickly,  "Do  you  like 
Homer  ?" 

"Homer!"  exclaimed  she,  startled  by  the  abrupt 
transition.  "  I  cannot  say  that  he  is  one  of  my  favorite 
authors." 

"Do  you  know,  I  cannot  understand  that?" 

"He  is  so  very,  very  old,"  pleaded  she,  in  extenua 
tion. 

"  So  is  the  human  heart,  of  which  he  was  master ; 
so  is  the  ocean,  to  which  he  has  been  compared, — eter 
nal  movement  and  eternal  repose.  But  what  you  said 
just  now,  as  to  the  Lethean  eifect  of  music,  reminded 


264  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

me  of  that  grand  scene  in  the  Iliad,  where  Ulysses  and 
Phoenix  and  Ajax  go,  as  ambassadors  of  Agamemnon, 
to  Achilles,  with  offerings  and  apologies  for  the  wrong 
that  has  been  done  him.  This  man,  whose  heart  was 
full  of  indignant  shame  because  of  the  insults  which 
had  been  heaped  upon  him, — who,  though  the  bravest 
of  the  Greeks,  had  gone  apart  by  the  sea-shore  to  weep 
bitter  tears, — him  they  found  solacing  his  sorrows  with 
music.  But  a  little  while  ago  and  he  had  been  ready 
to  strike  Agamemnon  dead  in  the  midst  of  his  troops. 
What  a  surprise  when  the  poet  draws  the  curtain, 
and  there  flashes  upon  our  astonished  eyes  the  in 
exorable,  flinty-hearted  captain  of  the  Myrmidons 
seated  with  his  friend  Patroklus,  peacefully  singing 
to  his  lyre  the  illustrious  deeds  of  heroes!  What  a 
master-stroke!"  cried  he,  with  flashing  eyes.  "It  is 
like  the  sudden  bursting  upon  the  view  of  a  green 
valley  in  the  midst  of  barren  rocks.  And  you  don't 
like  Homer  ?" 

"  Oh,  that  is  beautiful,  really  beautiful !"  she  hastened 
to  say,  abashed  at  the  sentiment  she  had  just  uttered. 
"  One  often  fails  to  see  beauties  till  they  are  pointed 
out.  Won't  you  talk  to  me  some  day  about  Homer  ?" 

"  Gladly,"  said  he  j  and  he  smiled,  then  almost 
laughed  aloud. 

"  Ah,  it  is  really  unkind  to  laugh  at  me !" 

"Not  at  all.  I  was  laughing  to  think  how  little  you 
dream  what  you  are  drawing  down  upon  your  head 
when  you  ask  me  to  talk  to  you  about  Homer.  You 
see  I,  too,  have  a  little  confession  to  make." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  asked,  eagerly. 

"  Perhaps  I  should  have  said  confidence  rather  than 
confession  ;  but,  upon  second  thought — " 

"Oh,  do  tell  mel" 

He  hesitated. 

"  I  shall  positively  die  with  curiosity !" 

"  If  there  be  any  danger  of  that,"  said  he, — and  he 
put  his  forefinger  and  thumb  in  his  vest-pocket  and 
looked  at  her  and  smiled. 

"Well?" 

"  Will  you  promise  not  to  think  me  so  very,  very 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  265 

foolish?"  said  he,  mimicking  her  tones  of  a  little  while 
before.  And  he  drew  an  object  from  his  pocket  and 
held  it  up. 

"  What  is  it,— a  book  ?" 

"  Yes,  a  book ;"  removing  from  a  much- worn  morocco 
case  a  small  volume. 

"  Oh,  yes,  your  Testament !" 

Mary  had  not  forgotten  what  I  had  told  of  a  certain 
incident  that  had  occurred  in  the  Don's  rooms  in  Rich 
mond,  and  had  heedlessly  alluded  to  it. 

"  My  Testament !"  said  he,  with  a  quick,  suspicious 
look. 

She  felt  that  she  had  blundered;  but  Mary  Eolfe, 
like  the  majority  of  her  sex,  was  a  woman.  "  Why, 
isn't  it  a  Testament?"  asked  she,  carelessly;  "it  has 
j"~t  the  look  of  some  of  those  little  English  editions." 
And  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Oh !"  said  the  Don,  looking  relieved.  "  No,  it  is 
not  a  Testament." 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?"  said  she,  her  hand  still  extended. 

"  It  is  a  copy  of  the  Iliad ;  and  my  little  confession 
is,  that  I  have  carried  it  in  this  pocket  ever  so  many 
years." 

"  Indeed !"  cried  Mary,  much  interested. 

"  So,  you  see,  when  you  ask  me  to  talk  to  you  about 
Homer,  you  are  getting  yourself  into  trouble,  most 
probably." 

"  Let  me  have  it." 

The  Don  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"What!"  cried  she,  with  amazement,  "I  may  not 
touch  it  ?" 

"  Well,  as  a  special  favor,  you  may ;  but  it  must  not 
go  out  of  my  possession.  Here,  you  hold  that  lid  and 
I  this.  No,  this  way,"  added  the  Don,  rising.  He  had 
been  seated  on  her  right ;  but  now  placing  his  chair  to 
her  left,  he  held  out  the  little  volume  to  her,  holding 
the  left  lid,  together  with  a  few  pages,  between  finger 
and  thumb.  What  could  be  his  object  in  changing  his 
position?  Was  there  something  written  on  the  fly 
leaf?  She  gave  a  quick  glance  at  his  face,  but  instantly 
checked  herself  and  broke  out  into  a  merry  laugh. 
M  23 


266  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"How  perfectly  absurd!"  said  she.  "We  look,  for 
all  the  world,  like  two  Sunday-school  children  reading 
the  same  hymn-book!  What!"  exclaimed  she,  with 
quick  interest,  and  looking  up  into  his  face :  "  The 
original  Greek?" 

"Yes,"  replied  he,  quietly;  "no  real  master-piece 
can  ever  be  translated." 

Just  then  some  chords  were  sounded  on  the  piano, 
and  the  Don  turned  and  looked  in  that  direction. 
Maiy  raised  her  eyes  and  scanned  his  face  narrowly. 
She  was  reading  him  afresh  by  the  light  he  had  just 
cast  upon  himself. 

For  her,  being  such  as  she  was,  this  man  of  surprises 
had  acquired  a  new  interest. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

"  LADIES  unt  shentlemens,  I  have  de  pleasure  to  an 
nounce  dot  Miss  Lucy  will  now  favor  de  company  mit 
a  song."  The  Herr  was  seated  at  the  piano,  while 
Lucy  stood  by  his  side. 

"  W  hat !  does  she  sing,  too  ?"  inquired  the  Don,  with 
interest. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  Lucy  has  a  very  sweet  voice." 

The  Don  sat  and  listened,  with  a  pleased  smile,  nod 
ding  approvingly  from  time  to  time.  "  Not  very 
strong,"  remarked  he,  when  the  song  was  ended,  "  but, 
as  you  say,  sweet  and  sympathetic — very." 

A  second  ballad  was  called  for,  which  Lucy  gave, 
and  then  her  mother  suggested  Schubert's  "  Serenade." 
She  had  hardly  sung  half  a  dozen  notes,  when  Mary 
noticed  a  peculiar  expression  on  the  Don's  face.  It 
was  a  face  which,  when  in  repose,  was  always  grave, 
to  say  the  least ;  and  there  were  times  when  it  seemed 
to  many  stern,  even  grim.  But  now  as  he  gazed,  wide- 
eyed  and  dreamy,  upon  the  bank  of  coals  before  him. 
the  firm  lines  of  his  features  melted  into  an  inexpressible 
softness. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  267 

"  Ob,  that  I  were  a  musician,  to  bring  tbat  beautiful 
look  into  his  face!  Lucy's  fingers  have  stolen  half  his 
heart,  her  voice  the  rest."  Thus  sighed  Mary  in  the 
depths  of  her  troubled  spirit. 

The  Don  rose  softly  from  his  seat.  "  Excuse  me/'  said 
he ;  and  moving  silently  and  on  tiptoe  across  the  room, 
took  up  his  violin,  placed  it  under  his  chin,  and  poising 
the  bow  over  the  strings,  stood  there  waiting  for  a 
pause  in  Lucy's  song.  By  Lucy  alone,  of  all  the  com 
pany,  had  these  movements  of  the  Don  been  unob 
served  ;  and  when  there  leaped  forth,  just  behind  her 
and  close  to  her  ear,  the  vibrating  tones  of  the  Guar- 
nerius,  echoing  her  own,  she  gave  a  quick  start  and  a 
pretty  little  "oh!"  but  turning  and  seeing  the  Don 
r.^ind  her,  she  beamed  upon  him  with  a  radiant  smile. 

"Aha,  an  obligato!  so!"  cried  the  Herr.  "Very 
goot,  very  goot."  And  he  bent  him  over  the  piano  with 
renewed  zeal. 

If  I  knew  what  an  "obligato"  was,  I  would  toll  you 
most  cheerfully ;  but  even  Charley  could  never  get  it 
into  my  head.  It  was  not  an  accompaniment,  that  I 
know ;  for  the  Herr  was  playing  the  accompaniment 
himself. 

"  I  tell  you  venn  to  come  in,"  said  the  Herr  to  Lucy, 
who  was  naturally  a  little  confused  at  first.  "  Now — • 
ah — so,  very  goot." 

This  time  the  Don  broke  in  here  and  there  upon 
Lucy's  song  in  a  fragmentary  kind  of  way,  as  it  seemed 
to  me,  and  just  as  fancy  dictated,  producing  a  very 
weird  and  startling  effect ;  and  when  the  pause  came 
in  her  score,  he  continued  the  strain  in  an  improvisa 
tion  full  of  power  and  wild  passion.  "  Wunderschon  ! 
Ben  trovato !"  cried  the  Herr,  lapsing  into  and  out  of 
his  mother-tongue  in  his  enthusiasm. 

I  gave  the  reader  to  understand,  when  I  brought 
him  acquainted  with  Waldteufel,  that  he  was  a  musi 
cian  of  far  greater  ability  than  one  would  have  ex 
pected  to  find  teaching  in  a  country  neighborhood  ;  re 
gretfully  giving  the  reason  for  this  anomaly.  Aroused 
now  by  the  Don,  he  showed  the  stuff  that  was  in  him ; 
dashing  off  an  improvisation  full  of  feeling  on  the  theme 


268  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

of  the  "Serenade."  "Now,"  said  he,  striking  the  last 
notes,  "coom  again,  coom.  Yot  you  got  to  say  now?" 
he  added,  in  challenge. 

The  Don  gave  a  slight  bow  to  Lucy. 

"  Ah,  das  is  so, — I  forgot." 

Lucy  began  anew,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her  eyes 
sparkling  with  excitement,  nodding  approval,  first  to 
one,  then  to  the  other  of  the  rival  artists,  as  each  in 
turn  gave  proof  of  his  virtuosity.  Schubert's  "Serenade" 
is  of  a  divine  beauty,  and  improving  upon  it  is  like 
adding  polish  to  Gray's  "Elegy."  But  such  considera 
tions  did  not  disturb  our  little  audience.  Our  local 
pride  was  up.  The  stranger  had  been  carrying  every 
thing  before  him,  and  when  our  honest  Herr  came 
back  at  him  with  a  Roland  for  his  Oliver,  as  described 
above,  there  had  been  a  lively  clapping  of  hands.  And 
now,  first  one  or  two,  then  the  entire  company  had 
risen  in  a  body  and  clustered  around  the  performers, 
applauding  and  cheering  each  in  turn,  but  the  Herr, 
as  I  remember,  most  warmly ;  for  few  of  us  had  ever 
heard  him  improvise  before,  and,  besides,  he  seemed  to 
deserve  special  encouragement  for  his  pluck  in  con 
tending  with  this  Orpheus,  newly  dropped  among  us 
from  the  skies,  as  it  were. 

Mary  had  not  at  first  risen  with  the  rest.  An  un 
conquerable  reserve  was  her  most  marked  trait.  But 
at  last  even  she  rose  (not  being  able,  perhaps,  to  see 
the  Don  from  where  she  sat),  but  did  not  join  the 
cluster  that  surrounded  the  piano.  She  stood  apart, 
resting  her  elbow  upon  the  mantel-piece,  her  cheek 
upon  her  hand,  listening  to  the  music, — the  music  half 
drowned  by  the  fevered  tattoo  her  own  heart  was  beat 
ing.  For  now  Lucy  was  singing  the  last  stanza  of  the 
song,  and  the  Herr  had  dropped  into  something  like 
an  accompaniment,  while  the  Don,  seeing  that  his 
antagonist  had  called  a  truce,  had  reined  his  own  muse 
down  into  a  "  second."  Sustained  by  this  and  rising 
with  her  enthusiasm,  Lucy's  voice  came  forth  with  a 
power  and  a  pathos  it  had  not  shown  before ;  and  the 
mellow  Guarnerius,  kindling  and  enkindled  in  turn, 
rose  to  a  passion  almost  human  in  its  intensity.  And 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  269 

before  Mary's  eyes  there  seemed  to  float,  as  voice  and 
violin  rose  and  fell,  and  fell  and  rose,  a  vision  (and  it 
was  her  nature  to  dream  dreams) ;  there  floated  a 
vision  as  of  two  souls  locked  in  eternal  embrace  and 
borne  aloft  on  the  wings  of  divinest  music. 

She  did  not  close  her  eyes  that  night ;  for,  to  add  to 
the  perturbation  of  her  spirit,  Mrs.  Poythress,  seeing 
Charley  making  ready  to  cross  the  Eiver  and  spend  the 
night  under  her  roof,  as  he  did  every  Friday,  had  so 
cordially  invited  the  Don  to  accompany  him  that  he, 
when  the  invitation  was  warmly  seconded  by  Mr.  Poy 
thress  and  Lucy,  had,  after  some  hesitation,  consented 
to  do  so. 

He  had  entered  the  very  grotto  of  Circe. 


CHAPTER  XLIY. 

THE  Poythresses  were  cordiality  itself.  No  sooner 
had  the  Don's  foot  crossed  their  threshold,  than  Mr. 
Poythress,  taking  him  by  the  hand,  gave  him  a  warm 
welcome  to  Oakhurst.  "  Yes,  you  are  truly  welcome," 
said  Mrs.  Poythress,  taking  the  other  hand;  while 
Lucy,  too,  smiled  in  hospitable  assent. 

The  latter  has  told -me  since  that  she  was  struck,  at 
the  time,  with  a  certain  something  very  singular  in  his 
manner  of  meeting  these  courtesies.  As  the  boat  had 
neared  the  shore,  she  had  observed  that  the  Don  grew 
more  and  more  silent ;  and  now,  in  response  to  greet 
ings  of  such  marked  cordiality,  he  had  merely  bowed, 
— bowed  low,  but  without  a  word.  "Are  you  cold?" 
asked  Mrs.  Poythress,  looking  up  into  his  face,  as  they 
entered  the  sitting-room.  "  Why,  you  are  positively 
shivering!  Mr.  Poythress,  do  stir  the  fire.  Are  you 
subject  to  chills-?  No  ?" 

"  The  wind  was  very  keen  on  the  Eiver,"  said  the 
Don.  He  spoke  with  difficulty,  and  as  he  leaned  over 
the  fire,  warming  his  hands,  his  teeth  chattered. 

Charley  whispered  to  Mrs.  Poythress. 
23* 


270  THE  STORY   OF  DON  MIFF. 

".Not  a  drop,"  replied  she;  "you  know  Mr.  Poy- 
thress  will  not  allow  a  gill  of  anything  of  the  kind  to 
be  kept  in  the  house.  I  am  so  sorry." 

"  Well,  it  does  not  matter.  Do  you  know  it  is  past 
one  o'clock  ?  Suppose  all  of  you  go  to  bed  and  leave 
him  to  me." 

"Now,"  said  Charley,  when  he  and  the  Don  were 
left  alone,  "  let's  adjourn  to  the  dining-room  and  have 
a  quiet  pipe,  after  the  labors  of  the  evening.  I  don't 
know  why  it  is,"  continued  Charley,  as  they  entered 
the  room,  "  but  fiddling — "  Here  Charley  quickly  drew 
back,  as  a  horse  when  sharply  reined  up,  with  a  look 
that  seemed  to  show  that  his  eyes  had  fallen  upon 
some  unwelcome  object.  The  suppression  of  all  appear 
ance  of  emotion  was,  as  we  know,  a  foible  of  his. 
There  was  one  thing,  however,  which  he  could  not 
suppress ;  and  it  was  this  which  often  betrayed  him  to 
his  friends;  to  wit,  his  infirmity  of  stammering;  of 
which,  as  I  do  not  care  either  to  deface  my  pages  or  to 
make  sport  of  my  friend,  I  shall  give  but  sparing  typo 
graphical  indication,  leaving  the  rest  to  the  reader's 
imagination.  " F-f-f-f-iddling,"  continued  he,  "always 
gives  me  a  consuming  thirst  for  a  smo-mo-mo-moke. 
Sy  the  way,  thirst  for  a  smoke  strikes  me  as  a  mixed 
metaphor,  but  '  hunger'  would  scarcely  improve  mat 
ters.  I  presume  that  if  our  Aryan  ancestors  had 
known  the  divine  weed,  we  should  have  had  a  better 
word  wherewithal  to  express  our  longing  for  it." 

Whenever  Charley  began  to  stammer  and  philos 
ophize,  he  always  suggested  to  my  mind  a  partridge 
tumbling  and  fluttering  away  through  the  grass;  there 
was  always  a  nest  somewhere  near. 

"  As  it  is,"  continued  he,  "  we  must  be  content  to 
borrow  from  the  grovelling  vocabulary  of  the  eater  and 
the  drinker,  leaving  to  civilization — there,  toast  your 
toes  on  that  fender — to  evolve  a  more  fitting  term." 

The  Don,  who  had  been  looking  serious  enough  be 
fore,  could  not  suppress  a  smile  at  this  quaint  sally  of 
our  friend, — a  smile  that  broadened  into  a  laugh  when 
Charley,  having  succeeded,  after  a  protracted  struggle, 
in  shooting  a  word  from  his  mouth  as  though  from  a 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  271 

pop-gun,  parenthetically  consigned  all  p's  and  m's  to 
perdition  ;  that  being  the  class  of  letters  which  chiefly 
marred  his  utterance. 

There  is,  about  the  damning  of  a  mere  labial,  a  gro 
tesque  impotency  that  goes  far  towards  rescuing  the 
oath  from  profanity;  and  we  may  hope  that  Uncle 
Toby's  accusing  angel  neglected  to  hand  this  one  in 
for  record. 

"  This  is  very  snug,"  said  Charley,  drawing  together 
the  ends  of  logs  which  had  burned  in  two. 

Charley  had  neglected  to  light  the  lamp,  but  the 
logs  soon  began  to  shed  a  ruddy  glow  about  the  room, 
in  the  obscure  light  of  which  the  stranger  began  to 
look  about  him,  as  was  natural.  Charley  could  always 
see  more  with  his  eyes  shut  than  I  could  with  mine  wide 
open  ;  but  I  cannot  very  well  understand  how,  in  that 
dimly-lighted  room,  he  contrived  to  observe  all  that  he 
pretends  to  have  seen  on  this  occasion ;  especially  as 
he  acknowledges  that  he  was  steadily  engaged  at  his 
old  trick  of  blowing  smoke-rings,  sighting  at  them 
with  one  eye,  and  spearing  them  with  the  forefinger  of 
his  right  hand. 

The  stranger  did  not  stroll  about  the  room  with  his 
hands  behind  his  back,  examining  the  objects  on  the 
sideboard,  and  yawning  in  the  faces  of  the  ancestral  por 
traits,  as  he  might  have  been  pardoned  fordoing  at  that 
hour,  and  in  the  absence  of  the  family.  "  Yes,  this  is 
very  snug,"  echoed  he,  in  a  rather  hollow  voice,  while 
he  glanced  from  object  to  objeet  in  the  room  with  an 
eager  interest  that  contrasted  strangely  with  the  im 
mobility  of  his  person ;  his  almost  motionless  head 
giving  a  rather  wild  look  to  his  rapidly-roving  eyes. 
Presently,  seeming  to  forget  Charley's  presence,  he 
gave  vent  to  a  sigh  so  deep  that  it  was  almost  a  groan. 
Charley  removed  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  with 
the  stem  thereof  slowly  and  care. fully  traced  a  very 
exact  circle  just  within  the  interior  edge  of  one  of  his 
whirling  smoke-wreaths,  in  the  spinning  of  which  he 
was  so  consummate  an  artist. 

The  stranger,  coming  to  himself  with  a  little  start, 
gave  a  quick  glance  at  the  sphinx  beside  him,  who, 


272  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

with  head  resting  on  the  back  of  his  chair  and  eyes 
half  closed,  was  lazily  admiring  another  blue  circle, 
that  rose  silently  whirling  in  the  still  air.  Had  he 
heard  the  moan?  And  in  his  embarrassment  the 
stranger  seized  the  tongs  and,  with  a  nervous  pull, 
tilted  over  one  of  the  logs  which  Charley  had  drawn 
together  on  the  hearth. 

They  flashed  into  a  blaze. 

"Why,  hello!"  exclaimed  the  stranger,  chancing  to 
cast  his  eye  into  the  corner  formed  by  the  projecting 
chimney-piece  and  the  wall.  "There's  a  dog.  He 
seems  comfortable,"  he  added,  glad,  seemingly,  to  have 
hit  upon  so  substantial  a  subject  of  conversation. 
"That  rug  seems  to  have  been  made  for  him.  Does 
he  sleep  there  every  night  ?" 

"That's  his  corner,  whenever  he  wants  it,"  said 
Charley,  rather  dryly,  and  without  looking  towards 
the  dog.  "  Let  me  fill  your  pipe  for  you." 

Charley,  somehow,  did  not  seem  anxious  to  talk 
about  the  dog,  but  his  companion,  not  observing  this, 
very  likely,  would  not  let  the  subject  drop.  Eising  a 
little  in  his  chair  and  peering  into  the  somewhat  ob 
scure  corner :  "  He  seems  to  be  a — a — " 

"  Pointer,"  said  Charley.  "  He  is  very  old,"  added 
he,  by  way  of  a  finisher. 

"  Oh,  I  understand, — an  old  hunting-dog  of  Mr.  Poy- 
thress's  that  he  cherishes  now  for  the  good  he  has  done 
in  his  day." 

This  was  not  exactly  a  question,  but  it  seemed  to 
require  some  sort  of  a  reply. 

"Well,  yes,  so  one  would  naturally  think ;  but  Mr. 
Poythress  was  never  much  of  a  Nimrod.  It  is  Mrs. 
Poythress  who  claims  the  old  fellow  as  her  property,  I 
believe." 

Charley  pulled  out  his  watch  in  rather  a  nervous 
way,  looked  at  the  time,  and,  thrusting  it  back  into  his 
pocket,  gave  a  yawn. 

"  What  rolls  of  fat  he  has  along  his  back !"  said  the 
stranger,  rising,  and  taking  a  step  or  two  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  sleeper. 

"Yes,"  said  Charley,  rising,  and  knocking  the  ashes 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  273 

from  his  pipe  with  a  few  rapid  taps,  "  it  is  the  way 
with  all  old  dogs." 

"  Ah,  I  am  afraid  I  have  disturbed  the  slumbers  of 
the  old  fellow,"  said  the  Don,  softly  retracing  his 
steps. 

"  He  is  as  deaf  as  a  post,"  said  Charley. 

The  old  pointer  had  raised  his  head,  and  was  rocking 
it  from  side  to  side  with  a  kind  of  low  whimpering. 

"  Speaking  of  slumbers,"  said  Charley,  looking  at  hia 
watch  again,  and  closing  it  with  a  snap,  "  suppose — " 

"  What  can  be  the  matter  with  the  old  boy?" 

The  dog  was  acting  singularly.  He  had  risen  to  his 
feet,  and,  with  staggering,  uncertain  steps,  was  moving 
first  in  this  direction  then  in  that,  sniffing  the  air  with 
a  whine  that  grew  more  and  more  intense  and  anxious. 

"He  will  soon  get  quiet,  if  we  leave  him."  And 
Charley  made  two  or  three  rapid  strides  towards  the 
door,  then  stopped  as  suddenly,  stopped  and  stood  bit 
ing  his  nails  with  unconscious  vigor,  then  slowly  turned, 
and,  walking  up  to  the  mantel-piece,  rested  his  elbow 
upon  it  and  his  cheek  upon  his  hand.  The  attitude  was 
one  of  repose ;  but  his  quick  breathing,  his  quivering 
lips,  his  restless  eyes  that  flashed  searchingly,  again 
and  again,  upon  the  face  of  his  companion, — these  told 
a  different  story. 

"He  is  trying  to  find  you,"  said  the  Don,  with  a 
sympathetic  smile.  "Poor  old  fellow,  he  seems  blind 
as  well  as  deaf.  Hello!  he  is  making  for  me.  What  I 
is  he  in  his  dotage  ?  Whom  does  he  take  me  for  ?"  he 
added,  as  the  old  dog,  coming  up  to  him  and  sniffing  at 
his  feet  and  legs  with  an  ever-increasing  eagerness, 
kept  wriggling  and  squirming  and  wagging  his  tail 
with  a  vigor  that  was  remarkable,  considering  his  apo 
plectic  figure  and  extreme  age.  Growing  more  and 
more  excited,  the  old  creature  tried  again  and  again  to 
rear  and  place  his  paws  upon  the  breast  of  the  Don  ; 
but  his  weak  limbs,  unable  to  sustain  his  unwieldy  bulk, 
as  often  gave  way ;  and  at  last,  with  a  despair  that 
was  almost  human,  he  laid  his  head  between  the  knees 
of  the  young  man ;  and  rolling  his  bleared,  opaque 
eyes,  as  if  searching  for  his  face,  he  whimpered  aa 


274  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

though  for  help.  The  Don  looked  bewildered,  and 
glancing  at  Charley,  saw  him  standing,  motionless, 
leaning  upon  the  mantel-piece,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  tho 
fire.  The  Don  started,  then  bent  a  sudden,  eager 
glance  upon  the  dog.  The  latter  again  strove  to  rear 
up,  but  falling  back  upon  his  haunches,  lifted  up  his 
aged  head,  and  rolling  his  sightless  eyes,  gave  forth  a 
low  howl  so  piteous  as  must  have  moved  the  hardest 
heart. 

It  was  then  that  the  stranger,  that  man  of  surprises, 
as  he  had  done  once  or  twice  before  in  the  course  of 
this  story,  revealed  by  a  sudden  burst  of  uncontrollable 
impetuosity  the  fervid  temperament  that  ordinarily 
lay  concealed  beneath  his  studied  reserve.  Stooping 
forward  like  a  flash,  he  lifted  the  dog  and  placed  his 
paws  upon  his  breast,  sustaining  him  with  his  arms. 

It  was  touching  to  witness  the  gratitude  of  the  old 
pointer,  his  whining  and  his  whimpering  and  his  eager 
ness  to  lick  the  face  that  he  might  not  behold.  He  was 
iiappy,  let  us  hope,  if  but  for  a  moment.  Suddenly  he 
fell, — fell  as  though  stricken  with  heart-disease,  all  in  a 
heap ;  then  tumbling  over  and  measuring  his  length 
along  the  carpet,  his  head  came  down  upon  the  floor 
with  a  thump. 

There  he  lay  motionless, — motionless,  save  that  every 
now  and  then  his  tail  beat  the  floor  softly,  softly,  and 
in  a  sort  of  drowsy  rhythm,  as  though  he  but  dreamt 
that  he  wagged  it, — gently  tapped  the  floor  and  ceased ; 
once  more,  and  stopped  again,  and  yet  again ;  and  he 
was  still.  The  stranger  knelt  over  the  outstretched 
form  of  the  dying  pointer. 

"  Ponto  I  Ponto,  old  boy !  Can  you  hear  me  ?  Yes  ? 
Then  good-by,  dear  old  fellow,  good-by !" 

Deaf  as  he  was,  and  breathing  his  last,  that  name 
and  that  voice  seemed  to  penetrate  the  fast-closing 
channels  of  sense;  and  with  two  or  three  last  flutter 
ing  taps — he  had  no  other  way — he  seemed  to  say 
farewell,  and  forever. 

The  young  man  rose,  and,  staggering  across  the 
room,  threw  his  arm  over  his  face  and  leaned  against 
the  wall.  Charley  made  two  or  three  hasty,  forward 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  275 

strides,  then  halted  with  a  hesitating  look,  then  spring 
ing  forward,  placed  a  hand  on  either  shoulder  of  the 
figure  before  him,  and  leaned  upon  his  neck. 

"  Dory !"  whispered  he,  in  a  voice  that  trembled. 

A  shiver,  as  from  an  electric  shock,  ran  through  the 
stalwart  frame  of  the  stranger.  For  a  moment  he 
seemed  to  hesitate;  the  next  he  had  wheeled  about, 
and,  clasping  his  companion  in  his  mighty  arms,  hugged 
him  to  his  breast. 

"  Charley  1"  cried  he,  in  a  broken  voice ;  and  his 
head  rested  upon  the  shoulder  of  his  friend. 


CHAPTEE  XLV. 

I  GREATLY  fear  that  when  I  stated,  somewhere  in  the 
course  of  the  foregoing  narrative,  that  I  had  firmly  re 
solved  to  exclude  love-making  from  its  pages, — I  greatly 
fear  that  none  of  my  readers  gave  me  credit  for  sin 
cerity.  Yet  it  was  not  a  stroke  of  Bushwhackerish 
humor;  I  was  in  sober  earnest,  and  was  never  more 
convinced  than  at  this  moment  of  the  folly  of  breaking 
my  original  resolution.  Here  I  am  with  three  pairs 
of  lovers  on  my  hands, — all  sighing  like  very  furnaces 
— I,  who  am  quite  incapable  of  managing  one  couple.  I 
suppose  I  have  only  myself  to  blame.  I  assembled  a 
number  of  young  Virginians  in  a  country  house.  I 
should  have  known  better.  Yet,  when  I  brought  them 
together,  it  was  an  understood  thing  (on  my  part,  at 
least)  that  there  was  to  be  no  nonsense. 

The  truth  is,  I  think  I  have  a  just  right  to  complain 
of  my  chai'acters.  I 'had  a  little  story  to  tell, — the 
simplest  in  the  world — the  merest  monograph, — and  I 
introduced  the  main  body  of  my  personages  as  a  set 
ting,  merely;  just  as  a  jeweller  surrounds  a  choice 
stone  with  small  pearls  to  bring  its  color  into  fuller 
relief. 

And  here  they  are,  upsetting  everything. 

Look  at  Billy,  for  instance.     I  could  not  have  gotten 


276  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

on  at  all  without  him.  In  the  first  place,  no  Christmas 
party  at  Elmington  could  have  been  complete  without 
him  and  his  jovial  laugh.  It  would  have  been  against 
all  nature  not  to  have  invited  him,  and  equall}7"  against 
Billy's  nature  to  have  stayed  away.  But  as  ill  luck 
would  have  it,  his  girl,  though  of  a  different  county, 
must  needs  be  of  the  party;  but  I,  knowing  nothing  of 
this,  caused  him  to  gallop  up  to  the  Hall,  that  cold 
Christmas  Eve,  simply  that  he  might  enliven  the  com 
pany  with  his  "  Arkansas  Traveller"  and  the  rest  of  his 
not  very  classic  repertoire,  and  still  more  by  his  mem 
orable  dive  under  the  table.  Now  I  like  my  Billy;  but 
his  loves  are  not  to  our  purpose.  And  so — for  I  can 
not  have  the  course  of  my  story  marred  any  longer  by 
his  antics — I  have  shipped  him  off  to  the  University. 
Imagine  him  bursting  into  No.  28,  East  Lawn,  and 
shaking  his  room-mate's  hand  to  the  verge  of  disloca 
tion.  Five  or  six  cronies  have  crowded  in  to  welcome 
the  truant  back  (writhing,  each  in  turn,  under  the  grasp 
of  his  obtrusively  honest  hand). 

"  No,  Tom,  you  need  not  take  that  old  gourd  out  of 
the  box.  My  fiddling  days  are  over." 

"  What !"  exclaimed  an  indignant  chorus. 

".Come  back  solemn ?"  asked  Tom.     " Bad  luck ?" 

Billy  colored  a  little.  "  Solemn  ?  Not  I.  But  oh, 
boys,  I  have  such  a  story  to  tell  you !  You  like  to  hear 
me  scrape, — wh-e-e-w  !" 

"What  is  it?" 

Jones  threw  back  his  bead  and  gave  a  roar  as  though 
Niagara  laughed.  While  he  is  telling  the  story  of  his 
discomfiture  we  will  take  our  leave  of  him  ;  for  as  soon 
as  the  chorus  have  departed,  he  will  begin  to  tell  his 
friend  Tom  about  his  girl,  and  we  have  no  time  to 
listen  to  any  more  of  that.  But  he  is  such  a  good  fel 
low  that  I  think  we  may  forgive  him  the  delay  his  loves 
have  cost  us. 

It  is  somewhat  harder  to  pardon  Charley's  falling  in 
love  so  inopportunely  ;  but  even  as  to  him  my  heart 
relents  when  I  remember  that  it  was  his  first  offence, 
and  how  penitent,  how  sheepish,  even,  were  his  looks, 
whenever  I  alluded  to  his  fall.  Let  him  go  on  casting 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  277 

out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes  timid,  admiring  glances 
at  the  inimitable  Alice;  drinking  in  deep,  intoxicating 
draughts  of  her  merry,  laughter-spangled  talk ;  happy 
in  her  presence ;  in  her  absence  fiercely  wondering  why, 
in  this  otherwise  wisely-ordered  world  (as  we  Virgin 
ians  have  been  taught  to  believe  it),  he  alone  was  a 
stammering  idiot.  Let  all  this  go  on,  and  more;  but 
as  with  Jones,  so  with  Charley,  their  loves  must  equally 
be  brushed  from  the  path  of  this  story. 

The  case  of  lover  No.  3  presents  greater  difficulties. 
When  I  recall  certain  passages  of  the  preceding  narra 
tive,  I  am  forced  to  acknowledge  that,  in  the  case  of 
the  Don,  I  have  unwittingly  entered  into  an  implied 
obligation  to  my  readers.  Unwittingly,  for  I  solemnly 
assure  them  that  when  (for  instance)  I  described  the 
gallant  rescue  of  Alice  and  Lucy  by  the  stalwart 
stranger,  it  did  not  so  much  as  cross  my  mind  what 
tacit  promise  I  thereby  held  out.  Had  I  been  a  novel- 
writer  or  even  a  novel-reader,  instead  of  the  phi 
losopher  and  bushwhacker  that  I  am,  it  could  not 
have  escaped  me  that  by  suffering  two  of  my  heroines 
to  be  valiantly  rescued  from  deadly  peril  by  a  hand 
some,  nay,  a  mysterious  and  hence  painfully  interesting 
young  man,  I  had,  in  effect,  signed  a  bond  to  bring 
about  a  marriage  between  the  rescuer  and  one  of  the 
rescued,  or  both ;'  the  more  charming  of  the  two  being 
reserved  for  the  end  of  the  book,  the  less  to  be  thrown 
in  earlier  as  a  sort  of  matrimonial  sop  to  Cerberus, — 
an  hymeneal  luncheon,  as  it  were.  Yes,  I  allowed  one 
of  my  heroes  to  rescue  two  of  my  heroines,  while  a 
third  gazed  trembling  upon  the  scene  from  her  latticed 
window.  Nay,  worse ;  for  whether  drawn  on  insen 
sibly  by  the  current  of  events,  or  hurried  thereto  by 
the  entreaties  of  my  friend  and  collaborator,  Alice,  who, 
woman-like,  declared  that  she  would  have  nothing  to 
do  with  my  book  unless  I  put  some  love  in  it, —  whether 
inveigled,  therefore,  or  cajoled,  it  is  a  fact  that  I  have 
made  allusion  here  and  there,  in  the  course  of  these 
pages,  to  such  sighings  and  oglings  and  bosom-heavings 
and  heart-flutter  ings,  accompanied  by  such  meaning 
starts  and  deep  ineffable  glances,  that  I  am  willing  to 

24 


278  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

admit  what  Alice  claims :  that  it  would  be  almost  an 
actual  breach  of  faith  not  to  tell  people  what  it  all 
meant. 

"  If  you  are  going  to  write  a  novel,  Jack"  (I  have 
been  plain  Jack  since  she  married  Charley),  "  why  don't 
you  write  one  and  be  done  with  it?" 

"How  many  times  must  I  tell  you  that  I  am  not 
writing  a  novel,  but  a  pbilosophico-bushwhackerian 
monograph  on  the  theme — " 

" Bushwhackerian  fiddlestick!"  cried  Alice,  impa 
tiently,  but  unable  to  suppress  a  smile  at  the  rolling 
thunder  of  my  title.  "  You  may  write  your  monograph, 
as  you  call  it,  but  who  would  read  it  ?" 

It  was  during  this  discussion  that  Alice  agreed  to 
edit  the  love-passages  that  illumine  these  pages.  But 
what  love-passages  ?  After  much  debate  we  effected  a 
compromise.  If  she  would  engage  to  spare  the  reader 
all  save  a  mere  allusion  to  the  heart-pangs  of  the  jovial 
Jones,  she  should  have  full  liberty  to  revel  through 
whole  chapters  in  the  loves  of  the  Don.  "As  for  your 
little  affair  with  Charley,"  I  added,  "I  agree  to  dress 
that  up  myself." 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  Jack,  if  you  were  to  put  Mr.  Fro- 
bisher  and  myself  in  your  book — and — and — make 
him—" 

"  Make  him — "     (Here  I  smiled.) 

"  You  know,  you  villain !" 

"Stammer  forth  praises  of  your  loveliness?" 

"  You  dare !" 

And  so  we  are  reduced  to  a  single  pair  of  lovers : 
the  Don  and — 


CHAPTEE  XL  VI. 

Bur  he  was  enough.  At  the  period  at  which  we  are 
now  arrived,  his  conduct  became  more  perplexing  than 
ever.  The  neighborhood  was  divided  into  two  camps, 
one  maintaining  that  Mary  found  favor  in  his  eyes,  the 
other  that  Lucy  and  music  had  carried  the  day.  Most 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  279 

of  the  gentlemen  were  of  the  latter  party.  They 
pointed  out  his  frequent  visits  across  the  Eiver,  the 
hours  he  spent  playing  for  or  with  her,  his  obvious 
efforts  to  win  the  good-will  of  her  mother.  Some  few 
of  the  girls  were  on  our  side ;  and  I  remember  that 
they,  at  times,  commented  with  some  asperity  on  the 
alleged  court  that  the  Don  paid  Mrs.  Poythress, — rather 
plainly  signifying  that  in  their  case  a  swain  would  find 
it  to  his  interest  to  make  love  to  them  rather  than  to 
their  mothers.  But  a  majority  of  the  girls,  headed  by 
Alice,  scouted  the  idea  of  the  Don's  being  enamoured 
of  the  gentle  Lucy ;  the  difference  between  their  party 
and  that  of  the  men  being  that  they  could  give  no  rea 
son  for  the  faith  that  was  in  them.  They  thought  so 
— they  knew  it — well,  we  should  see — persisted  they,  in 
their  irritating  feminine  way. 

As  a  natural  result  of  this  state  of  things,  there 
arose  among  us  a  sort  of  anti-Don  party.  His  popu 
larity  began  to  wane.  What  did  he  mean  by  playing 
fast  and  loose  with  two  girls?  Why  did  he  not  declare 
himself  for  one  or  the  other?  Who  was  he,  in  fact? 

But  against  this  rising  tide  of  disapprobation  Charley 
was  an  unfailing  bulwark.  It  was  obvious  to  all  that 
a  close  intimacy  had  sprung  up  between  Frobisher  and 
the  Don.  They  were  continually  taking  long  walks 
together.  Secluded  nooks  of  porches  became  their 
favorite  resting-places.  The  murmur  of  their  voices 
was  often  to  be  heard  long  after  the  rest  of  the  family 
had  retired  for  the  night.  Charley,  therefore,  gave  this 
suspicious  character  the  stamp  of  his  approval,  and  that 
approval  sustained  him  in  our  little  circle.  I  say  our 
little  circle,  though  I,  of  course,  had  long  since  returned 
to  Richmond,  and  my  supposed  practice  at  the  bar. 
Fortunately  for  the  reader,  Alice  remained  on  the 
scene ;  else  where  had  been  those  delicious  love-pas 
sages  that  are  in  store  for  us  ? 

Of  all  this  circle,  Alice  was  most  eager  to  ascertain 
the  actual  state  of  the  Don's  sentiments.  Nor  was 
hers  an  idle  curiosity.  Her  penetrating  eyes  had  not 
failed  to  pierce  the  veil  of  bravado  by  which  Mary  had 
sought  to  hide  her  heart  from  her  friend.  But  did  Ac 


280  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

love  her?  She  believed  so, — believed  half  in  dread, 
half  in  hope.  Now  was  the  time  to  learn  something 
definite. 

For  the  Poythresses  had  given  a  dinner,  and  she  and 
Charley  were  promenading  up  and  down  the  Oakhurst 
piazza.  Presently,  there  sounded  from  the  parlor  the 
"  A"  on  the  piano,  followed  by  those  peculiar  tones  of  a 
violin  being  tuned, — tones  so  charmingly  suggestive,  to 
lovers  of  music,  so  exasperating  to  others. 

"Ah,  they  are  going  to  play!"  said  my  gi-andfather, 
quickly;  and  he  turned  to  go  into  the  parlor,  followed 
by  all  of  the  promenaders  save  Charley  and  Alice,  who 
still  strode  to  and  fro,  arm  in  arm. 

"  They  are  going  to  play,"  repeated  he,  as  he  got  to 
the  door,  turning  and  nodding  to  Charley,  and  then 
passed  briskly  within. 

At  this  some  of  the  girls  smiled,  and  Charley  red 
dened,  poor  fellow,  and  bit  his  lip;  while  Alice  gazed, 
unconscious,  at  two  specks  of  boats  in  the  distance. 

Suddenly  Mr.  Whacker  reappeared,  thrusting  his 
ruddy  countenance  and  snowy  hair  between  the  fair 
Leads  of  two  girls  who  were  just  entering  the  door, — a 
pleasing  picture. 

"The  Kreutzer  Sonata!"  he  ejaculated  at  Charley, 
and  disappeared. 

At  this  the  two  girls  fairly  giggled  aloud,  and,  dart 
ing  Parthian  glances  at  Alice,  tumbled  through  the 
hall  into  the  parlor. 

"  What  merry,  thoughtless  creatures  we  girls  are !" 
said  Alice,  removing  her  gaze  from  the  specks  of  sails. 

"  Yes,  and  no  fellow  can  find  out,  half  the  time,  what 
you  are  laughing  about, — or  thinking  about,  for  the 
matter  of  that." 

"What!  do  you  deem  us  such  riddles, — you  who,' 
they  say,  can  read  one's  thoughts  as  though  we  were 
made  of  glass  ?" 

"  I  ?    And  who  says  that  of  me,  pray  ?" 

"  Everybody  says  it.  /  say  it,"  she  added,  with  a 
smile  of  saucy  defiance. 

"  I  read  people's  thoughts  I" 

"Do  you  disclaim  the  gift?" 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  281 

"Even  to  disclaim  it  would  be  preposterously  vain." 

Charley  would  have  avoided  that  word  "  preposter 
ous"  had  he  bethought  him,  in  time,  how  many  p's  it 
contained.  His  face  was  red  when  he  had  stumbled 
and  floundered  through  it,  and  his  eyes  a  trifle  stern. 
He  bad  been  a  stammerer  from  boyhood,  but  of  lato 
his  infirmity  had  begun  to  annoy  him  strangely. 

"  Then,  modest  young  man,  I  suppose  you  have  yet 
to  learn  the  alphabet  of  mind-reading?" 

"  Yes, — that  is,  women's  minds." 

"  Women's  minds  ?  Do  you  think  that  we  are  harder 
to  read  than  men  ?  Do  you  think,  for  example,  that 
people  find  it  harder  to  see  through  such  an  unsophis 
ticated  girl  as  myself  than  such  a  deep  philosopher  as 
you?" 

"  You  ?  Why,  you  are  an  unfathomable  m-m-m- 
mystery  ?"  ("  Confound  it !") 

"  The  idea !  I  a  mystery  ?  And  this  from  you,  un 
readable  sphinx !" 

"  Yes,  and  unfathomable !  Why,  I  have  no  idea  what 
you  think  upon  the — upon — well,  all  sorts  of  subjects." 

Charley  caressed  with  a  shy  glance  the  toes  of  his 
boots,  and  felt  red. 

"  Indeed  ?  How  strange !"  And  she  gazed  upon  the 
dots  of  boats  and  felt  pale. 

"Yes;  for  example,  I  have  often  wondered  what 
in  fact,  for  example,  you  thought,  for  instance,  of — of 
— of — me,  for  instance.  Oh,  no,  no,  of  course  not,  I 
beg  your  pardon ;  of  course  I  never  imagined  for  a 
moment,  of  course  not,  that  you  ever  thought  of  me  at 
all,  in  fact.  What  I  mean  is,  that  whenever  you  did 
think  of  me, — though  I  presume  you  never  did  for  an 
instant,  of  course, — I  mean  that  if  by  chance,  when 
you  had  nothing  else  to  think  about,  and  I  happened 
to  pass  by —  Oh,  Lord !"  cried  Charley,  clasping  in  his 
hand  his  burning  brow. 

What  is  the  matter  with  my  people?  Chatterbox 
reduced  to  monosyllables,  and  the  Silent  Man  pouring 
forth  words  thick  as  those  that  once  burst  from  the 
deep  chest  of  Ulysses  of  many  wiles ;  and  they,  as  we 
all  know,  thronged  thick  as  flakes  of  wintry  snow. 

24* 


282  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"Don't  you  think  I  am  an  idiot?  Have  you.  the 
least  doubt  of  it?"  exclaimed  the  poor  fellow,  with 
fierce  humility. 

Alice  gave  a  little  start  and  looked  up. 

"  A  confounded  stammering  idiot  ?" 

"Mr.  Frobisherl" 

He  didn't  mean  it.  Charley  could  never  have  done 
such  a  thing  on  purpose;  but  his  left  arm  suddenly 
threw  off  all  allegiance  to  his  will,  and  actually  pressed 
a  certain  modest  little  dimpled  hand  against  his  heart 
.so  hard  that  it  blushed  to  the  finger-tips.  Alice  looked 
down  with  quickened  breath,  slackened  pace ;  but  Char 
ley  swept  her  forward  with  loftier  stride,  drawing  in 
mighty  draughts  of  air,  and  glaring  defiance  at  the 
universe.  He  did  not,  however,  stride  over  the  railing  at 
the  end  of  the  piazza.  Taking  advantage  of  the  halt — 

"Strange!"  said  Alice,  in  a  low  voice;  "do  you  know 
that  I,  too,  have  often  wondered  what  you  thought  of 
me?  Seeing  you  sitting,  silent  and  thoughtful,  while 
I  was  rattling  on  in  my  heedless  way,  I  often  wondered 
whether  you  did  not  think  me  a  chatterer  destitute  as 
well  of  brains  as  of  heart.  No?  Keally  and  truly? 
You  are  very  kind  to  say  so !" 

"Kind!"    exclaimed   Charley.      "Kind!         *        * 

*  *        *         *        *         *    "     *         *^» 

"  *         *        *        *  "    said  Alice,  looking  down —  "  * 

*  #         *         *         *_» 

"*  *  *"  continued  Charley,  "*  *  * 
#####*###* 

yes,       *        *       first  and  only       *        *       Eichmond 

*  very  first  moment  *        never  again 

*  dreaming  and  waking  *        despair 

*  *     torments  of  the     *  *     abyss !" 
"  *                  *     mere  passing  fancy  ?        *        as  ever 

were  caught  out  of  it.       *         *     Richmond     *     week 

*  *        *     out  of  sight,  out  of    *         *." 

"*  *  *  ey,  fiercely,  *  *  *  while 
life  *  yonder  river  flows  down  to  the  sea 

*  *         by  all  that's     *         *     never     *        *         * 
BO  long  as  the  stars  no, 
never!" 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  *  *  *  naturally  enough  *  *  country- 
house  *  *  *  passing  whim  *  absence 

*  *        *  another  dear  charmer    *       *     effaced." 
"No     *  *     graven     *       *      indelible     *        * 

revolve  upon  its  axis      *  *        *        *      sheds  her 

light      *        *        *        *  shall  beat      *        *        * 
obliterated !" 

"  *        *        *    others     *  *     vows       *       before 

*  and  yet    *         *        *  woman's  confiding  nature 

*  *        forgotten." 

"*        *         *     then  if    *        *     bid  me        *        not 

*  altogether      *        *      permit  me       *        * 
absolute  aversion      *         *         *      grow  into      *         * 
time     *        *        *     fidelity     *         *         *        *     ray 
of  hope  ?" 

"*        *        *        so  totally   unexpected,"   [Oh!  !  ! 

J.  B.  W.]      "      *      *      *      breath  away  with  surprise 

*        *        my  own  mind  *        test       * 

*        both  of  us        *        *        for  the  present 

*  *        as  though  not  said." 

"  *         *  "  said  he  "  *         *         *      absolute  dislike  ?" 

* "    dropping  her   eyes,    "  * 

cannot   altogether  deny        *  at  times        * 

acknowledge         *         *         *         perhaps         *         *." 

Here  the  cooing  of  these  turtle-doves  was  interrupted. 

"  The  adagio  is  about  to  begin  1"  [Does  the  learned 
counsel  allude,  when  he  speaks  of  the  "adagio,"  to 
the  andante  con  variazioni  of  Beethoven's  so-called 
Kreutzer  Sonata, — A  major,  Opus  47  ?  But  did  a 
lawyer  ever  count  for  anything  outside  of  his  briefs  ? 
Gh.  Frobisher.*-'] 

"  The  adagio  be — "  thought  Charley,  with  a  flash  of 
heat;  but  reined  himself  back  on  that  modest  little 
verb ;  so  that  no  man  will  ever  know  what  he  intended 
to  think.  [A  thousand  pities,  too,  for  as  his  mind, 

*  Reading  the  final  proofs  of  this  book,  I  find,  bracketed  into  the 
text,  sundry  satirical  observations  at  my  expense;  signed,  some  by 
Charley,  others  by  Alice,  who  had  undertaken  to  relieve  me  of  the 
drudgery  of  the  first  proofs.  Rather  than  bother  the  printer,  I  have 
suffered  many  of  them  to  remain — for  what  they  are  worth  ! — J.  B.  W. 
[And  I  suffer  this  astounding  note  to  remain  for  what  it  is  worth. — ED.] 


284  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

though  originally  sound,  never  had  the  advantage  of 
legal  training,  'tis  a  recreation  that  he  treats  it  to  but 
seldom.  J.  B.  TF.] 

My  grandfather  has  passed  out  of  the  parlor  on  tip 
toe,  to  make  this  announcement ;  though  why  on  tip 
toe  (there  being  an  intermission  in  the  music)  I  leave 
to  psychologists  to  determine. 

The  two  giggling  girls  had  popped  into  seats  near 
the  door ;  and  when  they  saw  him  moving  past  them, 
bent  on  his  errand  of  mercy  (Charley  was  not  to  miss 
the  adagio),  they  fell  upon  each  other's  necks  and 
wept  sunny  tears. 

"Poor  Mr.  Frobisher!"  gasped  one. 

"  Isn't  it  too  cruel !"  gurgled  the  other. 

Presently  Mr.  Whacker  returned,  looking  rather  dis 
concerted.  Charley  had  said,  "  In  a  moment,  Uncle 
Tom ;"  but  his  flushed  face,  and  his  voice,  pitched  in  a 
strange  key,  as  it  were,  rather  upset  his  old  friend ; 
and  he  had  retreated  rather  precipitately,  a  little 
troubled  in  mind  (he  knew  not  why),  but  none  the 
wiser  for  what  he  had  seen. 

"  Won't  they  come  in  to  hear  the  adagio  ?"  asked  one 
of  the  gigglers.  The  little  hypocrite  had  brought  her 
features  under  control  with  an  effort,  and  had  even 
managed  to  throw  into  her  voice  an  accent  of  sympa 
thetic  solicitude. 

"Not  even  to  hear  the  adagio  I"  echoed  her  pal, 
with  reproachful  emphasis. 

"  They  seem  to  be  engaged,"  said  Uncle  Tom,  simply. 

At  this  the  gigglers  giggled  giggloariously. 

"The  simpletons!"  sighed  my  grandfather,  bending 
upon  them  a  look  wherein  the  glory  of  his  dark  eyes 
was  veiled  with  a  gentle  pathos  that  ever  dimmed 
them  when  he  looked  upon  happiness  and  youth. 
"Laugh  while  you  may  I  You  will  have  plenty  of 
time  for  tears  in  the  journey  of  life,  poor  things.  In 
this  poor  world,  my  daughters,  the  height  of  foolishness 
is  often  the  summit  of  wisdom.  Laugh  on."  And  he 
placed  his  hands  upon  their  sunny  heads,  as  though  to 
bless  them  and  to  avert  the  omen.  And  they,  with  one 
accord,  arose,  and,  throwing  around  his  neck  a  tangle 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  285 

of  shining  arms,  stood  on  tiptoe  and  kissed  him.  And 
he  went  his  way,  none  the  wiser, — went  his  way  in 
that  simplicity  of  age  which  is  more  touching  than  that 
of  childhood ;  since  it  has  known  once — and  forgotten. 
And  between  his  departing  form  and  their  eyes,  that 
laughed  no  longer,  there  arose  a  mist  that  seemed  to 
lend  a  tender  halo  to  his  gray  hairs — and  they  blessed 
him  in  turn. 

"  Mr.  Frobisher,"  said  Alice,  halting  in  front  of  the 
door,  "  I  think  we  should  go  in." 

"  Go  in  ?"  repeated  Charley,  with  a  rather  dazed 
look. 

Things  were  so  interesting  on  the  piazza,  1 

"Yes,  we  must!" 

Could  he  be  mistaken  ?  No,  there  was  an  unmis 
takable  something  in  that  pull  upon  his  arm  that  said, 
Come  with  me. 

"Not  now;  just  one  brief  moment!" 

"  Yes,  now.     We  might  hurt  Uncle  Tom's  feelings." 

"  We!"  Did  she  mean  it?  Charley  gave  a  quick, 
inquiring  glance.  She  raised  her  eyes  and  met  his  with 
a  kind  of  shrinking  frankness. 

"  You  say,"  said  Charley,  "  that  we  must  go  in  to 
hear  the  adagio;  but — tell  me — just  one  little  word: 
while  they  are  playing  that,  may  my  heart  beat  in  the 
frolic  rhythm  of  the  scherzo  ?" 

She  made  no  reply,  nor  raised  her  head;  but  the 
same  gentle  pull  upon  his  arm  seemed  to  say, — and 
plainer  than  before, — Come  with  me. 

"  Tell  me,  dearest  ?" 

"  Oh,  don't  bother  people  so !" 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  her  face,  pallid  before,  was 
suffused  with  a  sudden  glory  of  roses. 


286  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

THE  reader  can  hardly  be  more  amazed  at  the  last 
chapter  than  is  the  writer, — amazed  not  so  much  at  its 
contents  as  at  its  existence.  I  agree,  at  the  close  of 
the  forty -fifth  chapter,  to  exclude  all  save  the  loves  of 
the  Don  from  these  pages,  and  then  devote  the  whole 
of  the  forty-sixth  to  the  amours  of  Charley  and  Alice ! 
I  break  a  promise  almost  in  the  act  of  making  it. 
Some  explanation  seems  proper,  and  one  lies  close  at 
hand. 

Your  modern  Genius  is  an  out-and-out  business  man. 
He  may  be  trusted  to  furnish  his  publisher  just  so  many 
chapters,  just  so  many  pages,  paragraphs,  lines,  words, 
as  shall  precisely  fill  the  space  allotted  him  in  the  maga 
zine.  Nor  baker  with  his  loaves,  nor  grocer  with  his 
herring,  could  be  more  exact.  Pegasus  no  longer 
champs  his  bit,  as  of  old,  nor  paws  the  earth.  He  goes 
in  shafts,  in  these  days,  and  is  warranted  not  to  kick 
in  harness.  He  trots  up  to  your  front  door,  goods  are 
delivered,  and  he  jogs  off  to  another  customer,  his  flanks 
cool,  no  foam  upon  rein. 

Now,  I,  being  a  mere  Bushwhacker,  bestride,  of 
course,  an  untrained,  shaggy  mustang, — an  animal 
sorely  given  to  buck-jumping  and  to  unaccountable 
bursts  in  every  direction  save  along  the  beaten  truck. 
And  how,  pray,  am  I  to  know,  astride  such  a  disre 
putable  prairie-Pegasus,  whither  I  am  going,  and  how 
far;  and  when,  if  ever,  I  may  hope  to  return? 

The  average  reader  would  probably  accept  this 
apology,  but  as  I  am  (in  a  small  way)  a  disciple  of 
Epaminondas  (who,  as  every  school-boy  knows,  would 
not  fib,  even  in  jest),  I  shall  not  offer  it  in  palliation  of 
my  conduct.  The  true  explanation  (and  therefore  the 
only  one  that  that  unique  Grecian  would  have  thought 
of  giving)  is  to  be  found  in  the  rather  peculiar  way  in 
which  this  story  is  being  written. 

The  romantic  among  my  readers  doubtless  picture 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  287 

me  to  themselves  seated  in  my  arm-chair,  my  feet  en 
cased  in  embroidered  slippers,  my  graceful  person  (for 
they  did  not  believe  me  when  I  admitted  that  I  was 
fat)  wrapped  in  the  folds  of  a  rich  dressing-gown.  My 
intellectual  brow  is  half  shaded  by  my  long  hair,  half 
illumined  by  the  pale  light  of  the  midnight  lamp. 
Meantime,  with  upturned  eyes  I  await  inspiration. 

This,  though  a  pretty  enough  picture,  is  not  such  as 
would  have  earned  the  approval  of  the  hero  who  first 
taught  the  Spartans  how  to  yield  ;  for,  on  the  con 
trary,  this  tale,  so  far,  has  been  put  together  in  a  very 
different  fashion — and  as  follows : 

Whenever  Charley  and  Alice  are  accessible  to  me, — 
when,  that  is,  either  they  are  spending  a  few  weeks  in 
Richmond,  or  I  can  run  down  to  Leicester  for  a  little 
holiday, — it  is  understood  that  we  three  are  to  get  to 
gether,  alone,  of  coin-se,  and  at  such  hours  as  we  are 
least  liable  to  interruption.  The  door  is  then  locked 
(never  double-locked, — to  Alice's  great  regret, — for  she 
says  that  this  precaution  is  invariable  in  novels ;  but, 
for  the  life  of  us,  none  of  the  three  could  ever  find  out 
how  to  double-lock  a  door),  and  we  begin  talking  over 
those  old  times,  Alice  and  Charley  doing  most  of  it. 
For,  as  the  reader  may  recall,  either  one  or  the  other 
of  them  was  an  eye-witness  of  most  of  the  scenes  de 
picted  in  this  volume.  My  part  in  the  transactions  is 
simple.  From  time  to  time  I  contribute  some  little  in 
cident  which  may  have  come  within  my  personal 
knowledge  \  b,ut,  as  a  rule,  I  confine  myself  to  taking 
notes;  by  the  aid  of  which,  I,  in  my  leisure  moments, 
draw  up,  between  meetings,  as  clear  a  narrative  as  I 
can ;  and  this  being  submitted  to  my  coadjutors,  is 
brought  into  its  final  shape  by  the  combined  efforts  of 
the  trio. 

This  method  of  composition  explains,  though  I  fear 
it  will  not  excuse,  what  many  readers  will  deem  a  grave 
defect  in  our  joint  production.  Confined  to  what  either 
Alice  or  Charley  or  myself  saw  or  heard  with  our  mere 
outward  eyes  or  ears,  there  was  obviously  no  place  in 
these  pages  for  any  of  that  subtle  analysis  of  thoughts, 
that  deep  insight  into  feelings,  that  far-reaching  pene- 


288  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

tration  into  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  mind  and  heart, 
that  marks  Modern  Genius. 

But  it  is  just  on  this  point  that  Charley  and  I  have 
had  battle  after  battle  with  Alice.  She  will  insist  on 
Insight,  on  Analysis.  People  must  be  told,  by  the 
ream,  what  Mary  felt,  what  the  Don  thought ;  and  she 
cites  novel  after  novel  to  fortify  her  position. 

"  Why  do  you  bring  up  those  books,"  said  Charley, 
one  day.  "Are  we  writing  a  novel,  pray?  We  are 
writing,  as  I  understand  it,  a — by  the  way,  Jack- 
Whack,  what  are  we  writing — for  instance  ?" 

"A  symph — " 

"  Exactly  so !  We  are  composing  a  Symphonic 
Monograph, — precisely.  Now  show  me,  in  the  whole 
range  of  literature,  one  solitary  instance  of  a  writer 
of  symph — ic — graphs — " 

Charley  was  not  stammering.  He  has  of  late  years 
almost  entirely  freed  himself  from  this  infirmity.  The 
verbal  fragments  above  represented  escaped  from  al 
ternate  corners  of  his  mouth,  Alice  having  dammed  the 
main  channel  of  utterance  in  the  most  extraordinary 
manner.  [It  was  a  way  she  had.  During  the  com 
position  of  this  entire  work,  whenever  Charley  has 
seemed  on  the  point  of  saying  something  that  she  was 
pleased  to  consider  humorous,  she  would  fly  at  him  in 
the  most  barefaced  manner,  shaking  with  laughter, 
and  cut  him  off.  Then  Charley  glances  at  me,  and 
tries  to  frown :  "  Oh,  it  is  nobody  but  Jack,"  says  she.] 

"  Besides,"  went  on  Charley,  without  even  wiping 
his  lips,  "  you  know  perfectly  well,  Alice,  that  you  al 
ways  skip  that  stuff.  Look  me  in  the  eyes,"  said  he, 
seizing  her  firmly  by  the  wrist, — "  look  me  in  the  eyes 
and  deny  it  I" 

"  Yes,  but  I  am  but  a  plain  body,  without  pretensions; 
whereas  people  of  ideas,  of  culture,  you  know — " 

"Then  you  admit  that  where  you  come  to  pages, 
solid  pages  of  Insight,  you  incontinently  skip  them  for 
those  passages  where  the  characters  are  either  acting 
or  speaking  ?  Is  it  not  so,  you  little  humbug  ?" 

"But  should  we  not  always  seek  the  praise  of  the 
judicious  ?" 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  289 

"  Oh,  the  simplicity  of  your  soul,  to  imagine  that 
•we  are  making  a  book  for  the  edification  of  the  wisel 
As  I  understand  it,  Jack-Whack,  it  is  composed  ex 
clusively  for  the  delectation  of — " 

Alice  held  up  her  hand. 

"  Of  the  majority,"  added  Charley.  [Interruption, 
remonstrance,  confusion.  "  Pshaw !  who  minds  Jack?"] 

"The  fact  is,"  resumed  Charley,  with  traces  of  a 
hypocritical  frown  still  lingering  on  his  features,— 
"the  fact  is,  all  that  kind  of  stuff  which  you  profess  to 
admire,  but  confess  you  never  read,  reminds  one  of  the 
annotations  of  the  classics  for  schools.  They  are  not 
intended  to  instruct  the  boys,  but  are  written  by  one 
pedant  to  astound  other  pedants.  By  the  way,  Jack, 
a  capital  idea  strikes  me.  It  will  give  our  book  such  a 
taking  and  original  air.  Suppose  we  go  through  it 
from  beginning  to  end,  and  simply  cut  out  all  the 
skipienda, — every  line  of  it, — and  leave  only  what  is 
intended  to  be  read  ?" 

"  And  then  publish  it  in  the  kingdom  of  Liliput  ?" 
inquired  Alice. 

This,  then,  my  reader,  is  the  way  we  talk  while  we 
write  this  story;  some  account  of  which  I  thought 
might  interest  you ;  and  it  was  after  a  discussion  like 
that  just  recorded  that  we  three  agreed  (by  a  strictly 
party  vote  of  two  to  one)  that  our  lovers  must,  for  the 
rest  of  the  book,  be  reduced  to  a  single  pair.  We 
reached  this  decision  at  the  conclusion  of  our  labors 
on  the  forty-fifth  chapter.  We  also  settled  it  to  our 
own  satisfaction,  that  by  the  time  our  future  readers 
had  reached  this  stage  in  our  story,  they  would  proba 
bly  be  consumed  with  curiosity  to  know  whether  it 
was  Lucy  or  Mary,  that,  with  the  Don,  was  to  con 
stitute  that  favored  pair.  The  fact  is,  it  had  now  be 
gun  to  dawn  upon  us  that  (although  we  knew  better) 
we  had  actually  given  the  supposed  reader  some  right 
to  look  upon  our  mysterious  hero  as  an  emissary  from 
Utah.  So  putting  our  heads  together,  we  decided  that 
it  was  time  that  he  showed  his  colors.  With  a  view  to 
forwarding  this  end,  therefore,  I  requested  Alice  and 
Charley  to  give  me  some  account  of  a  certain  inter- 
v  t  25 


290  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

view  had  between  them,  when  the  former  had  en 
deavored  to  discover  from  him  which  of  the  two  ^irls 
had  captured  the  Don.  For  Alice  had  often  told  mo 
that  she  had  made  up  her  mind,  on  the  night  before 
that  dinner  at  Oakhurst,  to  make  an  attack  on  the 
redoubtable  Mr.  Frobisher  on  that  day,  with  this  in 
formation  in  view.  And  she  had  formed  this  resolution 
owing  to  something  that  had  occurred  between  Mary 
and  herself. 

It  appears  that  on  the  night  previous  to  this  dinner, 
that  reserve  which  Mary  had  shown  Alice  ever  since 
the  Don  had  crossed  her  path  had  suddenly  given  way. 
The  two  girls  had  gone  to  bed  together,  as  was  their 
wont.  The  Don's  visits  to  Oakhurst  had  been  growing 
in  frequency,  and  it  was  understood  that  this  dinner 
was  given  in  his  honor. 

"  What,  aren't  you  asleep  yet  ?"  said  'Alice. 

"  No,"  said  Mary.  Something  in  her  voice  touched 
her  friend. 

"  You  must  not  lie  awake  in  this  way,"  said  Alice. 
And  she  began  to  pass  her  fingers  across  Mary's  fore 
head  and  through  her  hair. 

It  was  a  simple  action,  but  Mary  broke  down  under 
it.  Throwing  her  arms  around  her  life-long  friend, 
she  pressed  her  convulsively  to  her  bosom,  and  hiding 
her  face  in  her  pillow,  wept  in  silence.  After  a  while 
they  began  to  talk,  and  they  talked  all  night,  as  I  am 
told  that  sex  and  age  not  infrequently  do.  Alice  arose 
next  morning  with  a  fixed  determination  to  unravel 
the  mystery  that  was  giving  her  friend  so  much  pain. 
Mr.  Frobisher  could  make  things  plain,  if  he  would. 
But  would  he  ?  At  any  rate,  she  would  try ;  for  she 
was  a  plucky  little  soul.  And  so,  when  Charley  had 
offered  her  his  arm,  that  day,  after  dinner,  for  a  prom 
enade  on  the  piazza,  she  felt  that  she  had  her  oppor 
tunity.  But  it  would  appear  that  Charley  had  been 
looking  for  an  opportunity  himself;  and  so,  the  other 
day,  when  I  asked  this  couple  to  let  me  have  an  ac 
count  of  the  matter,  with  a  view  to  the  forty-sixth 
chapter  of  the  Symphonic  Monograph,  it  leaked  out 
that  Master  Charles  had,  on  this  occasion,  taken  up 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  291 

Alice's  time  not  in  telling  her  whom  the  Don  lovedj 
but  whom  Charles  adored.  This  discovery,  coming 
upon  me  so  suddenly,  upset  my  determination  to  ex 
clude  the  loves  of  Charley  and  Alice  from  our  story, 
and  I  called  for  an  account  of  the  courtship.  For  I 
felt  assured  that  an  authentic  account  of  the  first  and 
only  love-making  of  Charles  The  Silent  would  be  the 
most  delicious  morsel  in  the  whole  Monograph.  But 
at  the  merest  allusion  to  such  a  thing,  Alice  blushed  in 
the  most  becoming  way ;  and  when  Charley,  clearing 
his  throat  and  putting  on  a  bold  look,  made  as  though 
he  were  about  to  begin,  her  face  became  as  scarlet; 
and  rising  from  .her  seat  she  gave  him  the  most  digni 
fied  look  that  I  have  ever  seen  in  those  merry-glancing 
hazel  eyes.  Thereupon  Charley  and  I  laughed  so 
heartily  that  Alice  saw  that  she  had  been  taken  in  by 
her  husband's  serious  face.  "I  thought  not!"  said  she, 
laughing  in  turn.  But  the  idea  of  a  chapter  given  to 
the  amours  of  Charles  The  Silent  and  Alice  The  Merry 
had  seized  upon  my  mind  with  so  strong  a  fascination 
that  I  could  not  shake  it  off;  and,  as  soon  as  I  reached 
my  bachelor  quarters  that  night,  I  seized  my  pen.  My 
eyes  were  soon  in  a  fine  phrensy  rolling,  I  presume ; 
for  in  the  forty-sixth,  or  Galaxy  Chapter,  as  I  call  it, 
from  the  numerous  stars  with  which  it  is  bespangled, 
distinct  traces  of  Genius  may  be  detected  by  the  prac 
tised  eye  (with  my  assistance). 

What  I  mean  is,  that  chapter  was  composed  in  the 
manner  in  which  true  Creative  Genius  is  in  the  habit 
of  composing,  as  I  understand ;  made,  that  is,  out  of 
the  whole  cloth, — woven  of  strands  of  air.  But  even 
here,  though  mounted  on  a  genuine  (though  borrowed) 
earth-spurning  Pegasus,  I  have  not  swerved  far  from 
the  line  that  the  great  Boeotian  would  have  marked 
out  for  me.  Charley's  courtship  was  quite  real.  It  was 
the  words  only  that  I  have  had  to  invent,  left  in  the 
lurch  as  I  was  by  my  two  collaborators.  And  I  was 
going  to  add  that,  in  all  probability,  Charley  made  uso 
of  not  one  of  those  I  have  put  in  his  mouth,  when  I 
recalled  a  coincidence  so  singular  that  I  feel  that  the 
reader  is  entitled  to  hear  of  it.  When  I  read  to  my 


292  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

coadjutors  my  version  of  their  amours,  their  merriment 
was  uproarious.  Charley,  I  may  mention,  who  only 
smiled  when  he  was  a  bachelor,  has,  since  his  marriage, 
grown  stout  and  taken  to  laughing.  So  far  as  he  was 
concerned,  my  putting  the  word  "abyss"  in  his  mouth 
was  the  master-stroke  of  the  whole  chapter. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  choking  with  laughter,  "  I  am  sure 
I  never  made  use  of  the  word  in  my  whole  life !" 

"  Neither  had  you  ever  before  in  your  life  made  love 
to  a  girl,"  I  objected. 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  of  that  I"  said  Charley,  with  a 
knowing  look. 

"  H'm !"  put  in  Alice. 

"What  makes  the  thing  so  truly  delicious,"  said 
Charley,  "is  the  lachrymose  and  woe-begone  figure 
you  make  me  cut ;  whereas — " 

"  Ah  ?"  said  Alice,  bridling  up. 

"  Whereas  a  chirpier  lover  than — " 

"Chirpy!  oh!" 

"  Why,  Jack-Whack,  if  she  did  not  love  me  the  very 
first  time  she  ever  saw  me, — love  1 — if  she  did  not  dote 
upon — " 

"  Dote  indeed  !  Very  well !  very  well !  He  felt  sure, 
did  he  ?  Now,  Jack,  I'll  leave  it  to  you.  I'll  tell  you 
just  what  he  said,  and  let  you  decide  whether  they 
were  the  words  of  a  '  chirpy'  lover.  Chirpy,  indeed ! 
Mr.  Frobisher,  you  are  too  absurd !  We  were  walking 
up  and  down  the  piazza,  and  I  had  on  my  green  and 
white  silk  dress, — plaid,  you  know;  and  he  said — the 
first  thing  he  said  was — I  remember  it  as  well  as  if  it 
had  been  yesterday — " 

I  drew  forth  my  pencil.  Here,  after  all,  providentially 
as  it  were,  we  were  to  have  an  authentic  version  of  the 
amours  of  the  silent  man  and  her  of  the  merry -glancing 
hazel  eyes. 

"  My  dear,"  began  Charley,  with  nervous  haste,  "  wo 
are  interrupting  Jack ;  let  him  go  on  with  his  reading  " 

"Aha!"  cried  Alice,  in  triumph,  "I  thought — " 

Here  Alice  detected  Charley  giving  me,  with  his  off 
eye,  a  wink  so  huge  that  its  corrugations  (like  waves 
bursting  over  a  breakwater)  scaled  the  barrier  of  his 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  293 

nose  and  betrayed  what  the  other  side  of  his  face  was 
at. 

Charley  ducked  his  head  just  in  time ;  and  immedi 
ately  thereafter  began  a  series  of  dextrous  manoeuvres 
among  the  chairs  and  other  furniture  in  the  room,  in 
evading  Alice's  persistent  efforts  to  smooth  out  some 
of  the  wrinkles  that  wicked  wink  had  wrought.  At 
last  he  tumbled  into  his  seat  rather  blown,  and  with 
one  cheek  redder  than  the  other. 

Amid  such  scenes  as  this  has  this  tale  been  tacked 
together.  Can  the  reader  wonder  at  its  harum-scarum 
way  of  getting  itself  told  ?  Am  I  not  driving  a  team 
of  mustangs  ? 

"  They  are  all  alike,"  puffed  Charley ;  "  they  love  us  to 
distraction,  but  we  must  not  know  it.  Go  on,  my  boy." 

I  read  on  amid  much  hilarity ;  and  it  was  such  re 
ception  of  this  solitary  effort  of  my  individual  muse 
that  induced  me  to  retain  it  in  the  body  of  the  work. 
At  last  we  came  to  the  passage  where  occurred  the 
coincidence  to  which  I  have  alluded. 

In  my  fabulous  and  starry  account  of  the  billing  and 
cooing  on  the  piazza,  I  make  Charley  ask,  May  my 
heart  beat  in  the  frolic  rhythm  of  the  scherzo  ?  This — for 
why  should  I  hide  my  harmless  self-content  from  my 
friend,  the  reader  ? — this  I  don't  deny  that  I  thought 
a  very  neat  and  unhackneyed  way  of  asking  a  girl 
whether  she  gave  you  leave  to  consider  yourself  a 
happy  dog.  It  was  my  little  climax,  and — I  confess  it 
— my  heart  fluttered  a  little  as  I  drew  near  the  passage, 
in  anticipation  of  the  plaudits  I  trusted  to  receive. 

No  clapping  of  hands.  A  dead  silence,  rather ;  and 
looking  up,  I  saw  my  friends  staring  at  one  another. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  I,  a  little  sheepishly. 
"  I  rather  thought,"  I  stammered,  "  that — that  that  was 
— not  so  bad  ?" 

"  Mr.  Frobisher,  I  am  astonished  at  you !"  [At  that 
period  it  was  not  usual  for  Virginia  wives  to  call  their 
husbands  by  their  Christian  names.] 

"  Indeed,  my  dear — " 

"  You  need  not  say  one  word  1  I  should  not  have 
thought  it  of  you,  that's  all  1" 

25* 


294  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  But,  Alice—" 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  asked  I,  bewildered. 

"  Oh,  nothing !"  said  Alice,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 

"  Jack-Whack,  I'll  tell  you ;  she  thinks  I  have  been 
blabbing  to  you." 

"Thinks!" 

"  But  I  have  not  1" 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  Jack,  without  a  hint 
from  you — actually — "  she  hesitated. 

" '  Frolic  rhythm  of  the  scherzo  1'  "  I  shouted,  in  joy 
ous  derision ;  "  and  you  positively  used  that  phrase, 
you  sentimental  old  fraud !" 

Charley  turned  very  red, — redder  still,  when  Alice, 
relieved  of  the  suspicion  that  he  had  been  revealing 
their  little  love-mysteries,  laughed  merrily  at  his  dis 
comfiture. 

"  It  was  not  quite  so  b-b-b-b-ad  as  that.  I  admit  the 
'scherzo'  part;  b-b-b-ut  'frolic  rhythm' 1  I  was  not  so 
many  kinds  of  an  idiot  as  that  amounts  to." 

And  so — I  swear  it  by  the  shades  of  Epaminondaa 
• — I  had  actually  hit  upon  the  very  word, — and  truth  ia 
again  stranger  than  fiction. 


CHAPTEE  XLVIII. 

TIME  was  pressing.  In  another  week  these  long- 
continued  and  long-to-be-remembered  Christmas  fes 
tivities  would  come  to  an  end.  Yesterday,  Alice  had 
failed  to  extract  any  information  from  Charley.  To 
day,  she  would  make  another  effort. 

Opportunities  were  not  lacking,^abundant  opportu 
nities.  Somehow,  everything  had  changed.  Yesterday, 
wherever  Alice  was,  there  was  a  cluster  of  merry  faces. 
To-day,  her  mere  appearance  upon  the  piazza  seemed 
to  dissipate  the  groups  that  chanced  to  be  sitting  there. 
One  by  one,  on  one  pretext  or  another,  the  young  peo 
ple  would  steal  away ;  and  it  was  astounding  how  often 
Charley  constituted  the  sole  social  residuum.  Charley 


THE  STORY   OF  DON  MIFF.  295 

thought  it  famous  luck ;  but  Alice  detected  distinct 
traces  of  design  in  this  sudden  avoidance  of  her 
society.  "  Tbey  seem  to  be  engaged," — she  knew  that 
inriocent  phrase  of  Uncle  Tom's  was  passing  from 
mouth  to  mouth,  and  it  annoyed  her;  for,  at  the 
period  in  question,  it  was  fashionable  for  our  Virginia 
girls  to  be  ashamed  of  being  engaged;  and  so  deep- 
rooted  was  this  feeling,  that  whereas  we  are  assured 
by  Cornelius  Nepos  that  Epaminondas  was  such  a  lover 
of  truth  that  he  would  not  lie  even  in  jest — but  enough 
of  the  virtuous  Theban — 

Alice,  then,  being  superior  neither  to  her  sex  nor  to 
her  age,  as  I  am  glad  to  say,  was  half  vexed  at  being 
so  constantly  left  alone  with  Charley, — yet  half  willing 
to  be  so  vexed.  There  was  an  innuendo,  it  is  true,  in 
the  very  absence  of  her  companions ;  but  then  the  soft 
rubbish  that  Charley  was  pouring  into  her  pink  ear! 

Of  all  passions,  love  is  the  most  selfish ;  not  except 
ing  hunger  and  thirst.  Yesterday,  Alice  had  been 
eager  to  speak  with  Charley,  alone,  in  the  interests  of 
her  friend  Mary.  To-day  she  has  already  had  three 
talks  with  him;  and  although  he  had  given  her  noth 
ing  more  to  do  than  to  listen  to  the  conjugation  of  one 
little  verb,  she  had  not  thought  of  Mary  once.  Left 
together  for  the  fourth  time,  they  were  sitting  on  the 
piazza ;  and  Charley,  having  already  exhausted  and 
re-exhausted  the  other  tenses,  was  about  to  tackle  the 
pluperfect, — that  is  to  say,  having  persuaded  himself 
that  it  was  true,  he  was  beginning  to  explain  to  Alice 
how  it  was  that,  before  he  had  ever  seen  her,  and 
merely  from  what  he  had  heard  of  her,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 
[Fib !  Alice  F.~\  Just  at  this  juncture,  Mary  brushed 
past  them.  Charley  raising  his  eyes  and  seeing  in 
Mary's  a  casual,  kindly  smile,  returned  it  with  interest, 
— the  happy  dog!  Alice  raised  hers,  and  seeing  the 
casual,  kindly  smile, — and  more, — looked  grave. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Charley. 

Compared  with  your  infatuated  lover,  your  hawk  is 
the  merest  bat. 

Alice  rose.     "  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you.     Let 
us  walk  down  to  '  the  Fateful.' " 
25* 


296  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

11  The  Fateful"—"  Fateful  Argo,"  to  give  the  name  in 
full — had  been  christened  by  Billy.  It  was  neither 
more  nor  less  than  a  large  and  strongly-built  row-boat, 
which  had  been  hauled  up  on  the  shore;  and  being  old 
and  leaky,  had  been  abandoned  there.  It  had  become 
imbedded  in  the  sand,  and  being  protected  from  the 
wind  by  a  dense  clump  of  low-growing  bushes,  was  a 
very  pleasant  resting-place  for  the  romantic,  in  sunny 
winter  weather.  It  has  been  sung  that  Venus  sprang 
from  the  waves.  The  truth  of  the  legend  I  can  neither 
deny  nor  affirm ;  but  it  is  certain  that  their  gentle 
splashing  had  a  strange  intoxication  for  many  a  couple 
that  ventured  to  take  their  seats  in  this  "  Fateful  Argo." 

Alice  took  her  seat  in  the  stern,  and  Charley  (although 
there  were  several  other  seats  in  good  repair)  eat  beside 
her. 

I  think  it  will  be  allowed  me  that  no  book  was  ever 
freer  than  this  from  satirical  reflections  upon  women 
(or,  in  fact,  freer  from  reflections  of  every  sort  upon 
any  and  all  subjects) ;  but  I  am  constrained  to  observe, 
just  here,  that  it  seems  to  me  that  they  have,  at  times, 
a  rather  inconsequential  way  of  talking.  That  is,  you 
cannot  always  tell,  from  what  they  have  just  said, 
what  is  coming  next. 

"  I  have  asked  you,"  began  Alice,  "  to  come  with  me 
to  this  retired  spot  that  I  may  have  a  talk  with  you. 
I  have  a  favor  to — Mr.  Frobisher,  you  must  be  beside 
yourself!  And  the  piazza  full  of  people  1"  [Shades  of 
Epaminondas !  A.  Frobisher, .] 

That's  what  I  complain  of.  When  they  begin  a  sen 
tence,  you  never  know  how  it  is  going  to  end. 

"  On  the  contrary, — thank  heaven ! — I  am  beside 
you." 

"  But  you  won't  be  beside  me  long,  if  you  don't  be 
have  yourself.  Don't, — oh,  don't  I  Are  you  crazy  ?" 

"  Perfectly, — and  glad  of  it,"  replied  Charley,  with 
brazen  resignation. 

"  Well,  then."  And  with  a  supple  grace  disengaging 
herself  from  his  proximity,  so  to  speak,  she  whisked 
away  to  the  seat  in  front. 

That's  the  reason  I  always  did  love  women.     Their 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  297 

memories  are  so  short.  No  matter  how  angry  they 
may  be,  if  you  will  watch  them  while  they  are  scolding 
you,  you  will  see  that  they  are  forgiving  you  as  fast  as 
they  can. 

"  You  are  perfectly  outrageous !"  said  Alice ;  at  the 
same  time  readjusting  her  collar, — and  with  both  hands, 
— -just  to  show  how  dreadfully  provoked  she  was. 

"  Outrageous?  Presently  you  will  be  calling  me 
Argo-naughty,"  said  Charley.  [This  is  too  bad!  I 
never  made  one  in  my  life.  Chs.  F.~] 

Alice  had  purposed  looking  indignant  for  two  or 
three  consecutive  seconds,  but  surprised  by  this  totally 
unexpected  sally,  she  burst  out  laughing.  She  had 
opened  her  batteries  on  the  enemy,  but,  by  ceasing  to 
fire,  she  had  revealed  the  exhaustion  of  her  ammunition  ; 
and  he,  so  far  from  being  stampeded,  showed  symptoms 
of  an  advance.  As  a  prudent  captain,  all  that  was  left 
her  was  to  retire.  She  took  the  seat  next  the  prow. 
The  enemy  seized  the  vacated  position. 

"  That  seat  is  very  rickety." 

"So  I  perceive,"  remarked  the  enemy,  rising  and 
advancing. 

"  Oh,  but  there  is  not  room  on  this  for  two.  Go  back 
to  the  stern."  And  she  threw  out  skirmishers. 

The  now  exultant  foe  grasped  one  of  the  skirmish 
ers  in  both  his :  "  You  will  forgive  me  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  so,  if  you  will  go  back  to  your  seat, 
and  behave  yourself.  Let  go  my  hand." 

"  You  have  promised  it  to  me." 

"Yes,  but  indeed,  Mr.  Probisher,  the  girls  on  the 
piazza — " 

"  The  piazza  is  nearly  a  hundred  yards  away,  bless 
its  heart!" 

"  Indeed,  indeed — there  now !"  she  suddenly  added, 
with  a  stamp  of  her  foot,  "  I  told  you  so !" 

When?  When  did  she  tell  him  so?  That's  another 
reason  I  could  never  make  a  woman  out. 

It  was  then  that  Charley  heard  the  sound  of  heavy 
footsteps  crunching  thi-ough  the  sand,  and,  turning  his 
head,  saw  through  thfe  twilight  an  approaching  figure 
almost  at  his  elbow. 


298  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

Alice,  like  most,  though  not  all  of  her  sex,  was,  as  I 
have  mentioned  before,  a  woman.  Raising  her  placid 
face  and  serene  eyes,  she  pointed  out  to  her  companion, 
with  the  tip  of  her  parasol,  a  gull  that  hurried  above 
them  in  zigzag,  onward  flight.  "  Yes,"  continued  she, 
^-or  seemed  to  continue, — "  she  seems  to  be  belated. 
I  wonder  where  she  will  roost  to-night?  On  some 
distant  island,  I  suppose." 

"  Sam,  is  that  you  ?  Sam  is  one  of  my  men, — one  of 
the  best  on  my  farm.  Sam,  this  is  Miss  Alice — Miss 
Alice  Carter." 

"  Sarvant,  mistiss,"  said  Samuel,  hastily  removing 
his  hat  and  bowing,  not  without  a  certain  rugged  grace ; 
while  at  the  same  time,  by  a  backward  obeisance  of  his 
vast  foot,  he  sent  rolling  riverward  a  peck  of  shining 
Band. 

"  Well,  Sam,  any  news  from  the  farm  ?" 

"  Iior',  mahrster,  d'yar  never  is  no  news  over  d'yar ! 
I  most  inginerally  comes  over  to  Elminton  when  a- 
sarchin'  for  de  news." 

"  And  you  want  to  make  me  believe  that  3*011  walk 
over  here  every  night  for  the  news,  do  you  ?  Sam  is 
courting  one  of  Uncle  Tom's  women,"  added  Charley, 
addressing  Alice.  "  I  am  in  daily  expectation  of  having 
him  ask  my  consent  to  his  nuptials." 

Sam  threw  back  his  head  and  gave  one  of  those 
serene,  melodious  laughs  (as  though  a  French  horn 
chuckled),  the  like  of  which,  as  I  have  said  before,  will 
probably  never  again  be  heard  on  this  earth.  "  Loi-> 
bless  me,  young  mistiss,  what's  gone  and  put  dat -notion 
'bout  my  courtin'  in  Marse  Charley  head?  I  always 
tells  'em  as  how  a  nigger  k'yahnt  do  no  better'n  walk 
in  de  steps  o'  de  mahrster,  and  Marse  Charley  and  me  is 
nigh  onto  one  age ;  and  Marse  Charley  ain't  married, 
leastwise  not  yet." 

"  You  mean  to  say,"  said  Alice,  "  that  when  Mr.  Fro- 
bisher  marries  it  will  be  time  enough  for  you  to  think 
of  taking  a  wife  ?" 

"Adzackly,  young  mistiss,  adzackly,  dat's  it.  But 
Lor'  me,  I  dunno,  neither.  I  aint  so  sartin  'bout  dut. 
Sam  don't  want  to  bo  hurried  up.  He  want  to  take  he 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  299 

time  a  choosin'.  A  man  got  to  watch  hisself  dese  times. 
D'yar  ain't  no  sich  gals  as  d'yar  used  to  be.  De  fact 
is,  ole  Fidjinny  has  been  picked  over  pretty  close, 
and  Sam  ain't  after  de  rubbage  dat  de  others  done 
leff." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  rather  hard  to  please,  Sam  ?" 

"  Yes,  mistiss,  Sam  is  hard  to  please."  [Three  weeks 
from  this  date  Sam  led  to  the  altar  a  widow  with  one 
eye  and  eleven  children, — making  an  even  dozen, — who 
was  lame  of  the  left  leg,  black  as  the  ace  of  spades,  and 
old  enough  to  be  his  mother.]  "  I  won't  'spute  dat. 
Ain't  I  patternin'  after  Marse  Charley  ?  Slow  and  sho" 
is  de  game  Marse  Charley  play,  and  Sam's  a-treadiu' 
in  he  tracks.  Lor',  mistiss,  you  wouldn't  believe  how 
many  beautiful  young  ladies  has  been  a-fishin'  for  him  ; 
but  pshaw!  dey  mought  as  well  'a'  tried  to  land  a 
porpoise  wid  a  pin-hook!" 

Encouraged  by  the  smiles  evoked  by  this  bold  com 
parison,  Sam  bloomed  into  metaphor: 

"  But  he  was  not  to  be  cotched,  not  he  !  Leastwise 
not  by  dem  baits.  'Never  mind,  Marse  Charley,'  says 
I  to  myself,  'never  you  mind.  You  g'long!  Jess 
g'long  a-splashin'  and  a-cavortin'  and  a-sniffin' !'  'Fore 
Gaud  dem's  my  very  words,  '  but  d'yar's  a  hook  some- 
whar  as  will  bring  you  to  sho'  yet,'  says  I ;  '  and  dat 
hook  is  baited  wid  de  loveliest  little  minner,' — umgh — 
u-m-g-h !  Heish !  Don't  talk !" 

Charley  could  scarcely  suppress  his  delight.  "  And 
how  soon,"  said  he,  carelessly  dropping  his  hand  into 
his  pocket, — "  how  soon  am  I  to  be  landed  ?" 

"How  soon  ?"  repeated  Sam,  leaning  upon  his  heavy 
staff  and  reflecting  with  a  diplomatic  air.  "How 
soon  ?  Lor',  mahrster,  what  for  you  ax  a  nigger  dat 
question  ?  How  is  a  nigger  to  know  ?  But  I  do  be 
lieve,"  said  he,  turning  his  b»".k  upon  the  river,  and  at 
the  same  time  landing  his  metaphoi*,  "dat  you  have 
done  jumped  over  into  de  clover-field  already,  and  you 
ain't  gwine  to  jump  back  no  mo'."  (Here  Charley 
withdrew  his  hand  from  his  pocket  and  threw  bis  arm 
casually  behind  him,  across  the  gunwale' of  the  Argo.) 
"  Leastwise,"  he  added  with  a  perceptible-imperceptible 


300  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

glance  at  Alice, — "  leastwise  I  don't  see  how  you  could 
have  de  heart  to  do  it." 

Here  Charley  gave  a  slight  movement  of  his  wrist, 
invisible  to  Alice ;  and  Sam,  with  a  few  sidelong,  care 
less  steps,  placed  himself  behind  his  master.  He 
stooped  and  rose  again,  and  Alice  saw  in  his  hand 
three  or  four  oyster  shells.  These  he  dropped  from 
time  to  time,  pouring  forth,  meanwhile,  a  wealth  of 
tropes  and  figures  drawn  from  both  land  and  sea ;  but 
the  last  shell  seemed  to  fall  into  his  pocket. 

An  Anglo-Saxon,  if  he  have  a  well-boi-n  father,  a 
careful  mother,  and  half  a  dozen  anxious  maiden  aunts, 
you  shall  sometimes  see  hammered  into  the  similitude 
of  a  gentleman  ;  but  in  your  old  Virginia  negro  good- 
breeding  would  seem  to  have  been  innate. 

"Some  says  dat  d'yar  is  as  good  fish  in  de  sea  as 
ever  was  cotched  out  of  it  j  but  I  tells  'em,  when  you 
done  pulled  in  one  to  suit  you,  you  better  row  for  de 
sho'  less  a  squall  come  and  upsot  de  boat.  Well,  good- 
evenin',  Miss  Alice,  and  good-evenin',  Marse  Charley!" 
And  with  polite  left  foot  and  courteous  right  the  black 
ploughman  sent  rolling  the  shining  sand. 

"There,  now,"  said  Alice,  "you  seel  What  did  I 
tell  you  ?" 

"  Oh,"  replied  Charley,  "  Sam  will  keep  dark  !" 

Yes,  those  were  his  very  words!  And  Alice  ac 
knowledges  that  he  made  the  one  recorded  above 
(though  I  see  he  has  denied  it).  Such  is  ever  the  ruin 
wrought  by  love,  even  in  the  mind  of  a  philosopher. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Alice,  as  she  stood  with  her  feet 
upon  the  gunwale  of  the  Argo,  ready  to  spring,  "in 
the  rather  mixed  metaphors  of  honest  Sam,  which  of 
us  was  the  fish  and  which  the  hook  ?  '  Porpoise,' " 
quoted  she,  laughing,  "  I  trust  I  don't  remind  you  of 
one?" 

Charley,  who  stood  in  the  sand,  held  one  of  Alice's 
hands  in  each  of  his  with  a  degree  of  pressure  entirely 
incommensurate  with  the  necessities  of  equilibrium : 
"  *  *  *  *"  sang  he,  with  a  rapt  and 

fatuous  smile.  "*  ***** 

Absence  of  wings  *  *  *  vision  *  * 


THE  STORY  OF  DON   MIFF.  30 1 

*  *  eyes  beheld."  For,  upon  my  word,  the 
reader  must  not  expect  me  to  transcribe  more  than  a 
word,  here  and  there,  of  such  jargon. 

Yet,  though  my  tongue  be  harsh,  I  do  not  in  my 
heart  blame  Charley ;  for  Alice,  at  all  times  a  pretty 
girl,  was,  just  at  this  moment,  as  she  stood  above 
him  with  the  dark  sky  for  a  background,  radiantly 
beautiful  in  his  eyes.  And  more, — 

She  looked  beautiful  on  purpose. 

I  repeat  it, — she  did  it  on  purpose. 

And  here,  though  it  is  abhorrent  to  all  my  art- 
instincts  to  break  the  current  of  my  story  with  any 
thing  like  a  thought,  original  or  selected, — though  I 
have  promised  the  reader  to  place  before  him  a  suc 
cession  of  pictures  merely,  without  even  adding,  This 
is  Daniel,  and,  These  are  the  Lions  I — I  feel  that  I  have 
used  an  expression  requiring  an  explanation.  That 
explanation  I  cannot  give  save  through  the  medium 
of  what — disguise  it  how  I  will — wears  the  semblance 
of  a  thought. 

Buckle,  in  his  "  History  of  Civilization  in  England," 
lays  it  down  that  no  man  can  write  history  without  a 
knowledge  of  the  physical  sciences.  Now  it  is  equally 
true  that  no  one  can  discuss  human  nature  scientific 
ally  without  an  acquaintance  with  zoology.  It  is 
Darwin  and  the  naturalists  who  have  opened  up  this 
new  field  of  inquiry ;  and  Comparative  Zoological  Na 
ture  has  now  become  as  needful  a  study  to  the  play 
wright  and  novelist  as  Comparative  Anatomy  is  to  the 
physiologist.  For  my  own  part,  whenever  I  would  know 
whether  a  certain  proposition  be  true  of  man,  I  first 
inquire  if  it  holds  good  as  to  the  lower  animals, — to 
speak  as  a  man;  and  in  the  course  of  my  desultory 
investigations  on  this  line  I  have  stumbled  upon  sundry 
valuable  truths. 

Among  the  convictions  which  I  have  reached  in  this 
way  is  the  one  which  led  me  to  say  just  now  that 
our  pretty  little  Alice,  perched  upon  the  gunwale  of 
the  Argo,  bethought  her  of  making  poor  Charley 
crazy  with  love,  by  simply  looking  very,  very  beauti 
ful  ;  and  did  so  look  accordingly,  then  and  there.  Of 

26 


302  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

the  mere  fact  there  can  be  no  doubt,  since  I  have 
Charley's  word  for  that.  [Fact.  C.  F.~\  [Goose!  A.F.~\ 
[Who?  J.  B.  W.~]  But  a  scientific  explanation  of  the 
phenomenon  can  be  given  only  by  a  student  of  Com 
parative  Zoological  Nature. 

The  way  in  which  I  hit  upon  the  truth  in  question 
was  as  follows.  A  vexatious  incident  in  my  own  pri 
vate  history  had  occurred  just  at  the  time  when  I  bad 
Bet  myself  the  task  of  weaving  this  Monograph,  and  I 
was  ruefully  ruminating  upon  woman  and  her  ways, 
and  bringing  up  in  my  mind,  and  contrasting  with  her 
(in  my  Comparative  Zoological  fashion)  all  manner  of 
birds  and  fishes  and  what  not,  when  all  of  a  sudden 
there  popped  into  my  head  eels,  and  how  marvellously 
slippery  they  were. 

But,  thought  I,  if  you  can  but  got  your  finger  and 
thumb  into  their  gills,  you've  got  'em  ;  and  if  eels — 

But  straightway  I  lost  heart ;  for  I  remembered, 
from  my  Darwin,  that  of  gills — or  branchice,  as  he  will 
persist  in  calling  them — no  traces  have  for  ages  been 
discovered  in  the  genus  homo, — at  least  in  the  adult 
stage.  Far  from  it ;  for  the  Egyptian  mummies,  even 
in  their  day,  for  example,  got  on  perfectly  without 
them. 

The  case  was  hopeless,  therefore ;  but  still  I  went  on 
ruminating  about  women  and  eels  and  eels  and  women, 
in  the  most  aimless  and  unprofitable  fashion,  till,  wan 
dering  off  from  the  eel  of  commerce  and  the  pie,  I 
chanced  to  think  of  the  electric  variety  of  that  fish. 
Here  faint  streaks  of  dawn  began  to  make  themselves 
felt ;  and  so,  making  a  rapid  excursion  through  the 
animal  kingdom,  and  recalling  the  numberless  appli 
ances  for  offence,  defence,  and  attraction  to  be  observed 
therein,  I  returned  flushed  with  victory.  I  had  made 
a  discovery.  It  is  this.  Just  as  the  eel  in  question 
(the  Gymnotus  electricus)  has  a  reservoir  of  electricity, 
to  be  used  when  needed,  so  woman,  I  find,  carries  about 
her  person  more  or  less  bottled  beauty,  which  she  has 
the  singular  power  of  raying  forth  at  will. 

More  or  less ;  in  too  many  cases,  less ;  but  evolution, 
through  selection,  may  ultimately  mend  that. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  303 

How,  or  by  what  mechanism  they  contrive  to  do  this, 
is  more  than  I  can  tell.  We  know,  it  is  true,  that  the 
Anolis  principalis  (the  so-called  chameleon  of  the  Gulf 
States)  can  change  at  will  from  dingy  brown  to  a  lovely 
pea-green,  by  reversing  certain  minute  scales  along  its 
back  ;  but  to  jump  from  this  fact  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  woman  you  saw  at  breakfast  old  and  yellow,  but 
youthful  and  rosy  at  the  ball,  indued  all  this  glory  by 
simply  reversing  her  scales,  is,  in  the  present  state  of 
our  knowledge,  premature.  Besides,  we  have  just 
seen  that  the  gills  of  the  prehistoric  sister  have  long 
since  disappeared ;  so  that  the  woman  of  the  period 
may,  upon  investigation,  turn  out  not  to  have  any 
scales,  minute  or  other,  to  reverse;  so  unsafe  are  analo 
gies  in  matters  of  science. 

But  the  fact  remains  (no  other  hypothesis  covering 
all  the  observed  phenomena)  that  women  carry  about 
their  persons  bottled  beauty. 

As  to  the  thing  itself,  female  beauty,  I  do  not  pretend 
to  know  any  more  about  it  than  other  people.  That 
it  is  in  its  nature  a  poison  has  been  notorious  for  thou 
sands  of  years,  attacking  the  male  brain  with  incredi 
ble  virulence.  This  pathological  condition  of  that  or 
gan  has  been  spoken  of  for  ages  as  Love,  as  everybody 
knows.  But  what  everybody  does  not  know,  is  that 
woman  possesses  the  power  of  concentrating  this  toxic 
exhalation  upon  a  doomed  male, — dazzling  him  with 
what  I  may  provisionally  term  beauty's  bull's-eye  lamp. 
Love  is  not  blind.  Just  the  reverse.  The  lovelorn  see 
what  is  invisible  to  others,  that  is  all ;  the  focussed  rays 
of  the  most  magical  of  all  magic  lanterns. 

Before  I  made  this  discovery,  I  was  continually  won 
dering  how  most  of  the  women  I  knew  had  managed 
to  get  married ;  but  it  is  a  great  comfort  to  me  now 
to  know  that  they  are  all  beautiful  (in  the  eyes  of  their 
husbands). 

Setting  in  motion,  then,  this  subtle  mechanism,  which 
all  women  possess  (though  in  some  it  don't  seern  to 
work),  Alice  showered  down  upon  Charley,  from  hazel 
eyes  and  sunny  hair,  from  well-turned  throat  and  dim 
pled  hand,  from  undulating  virgin  form  and  momentary 


304  THE   STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

ankle-flash, — showered  down  upon  him  as  she  stood 
there  graceful  as  a  gazelle  ready  to  spring,  a  sparkling 
wealth  of  youth  and  beauty. 

No  matter  what  Charley  said. 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  so,"  said  she,  fluttering  down 
from  her  perch. 

The  shining  sand  was  deep ;  and  that's  the  reason 
they  walked  so  slowly;  and  that's  the  reason  -Alice 
clung  so  closely  to  his  arm ;  and  that's  the  reason 
Charley  thought  he  was  walking  on  rosy  morning 
clouds. 

"  Oh !"  cried  Alice, — and  Charley's  face  was  corru 
gated  with  sudden  care :  had  some  envious  shell  dared 
bruise  her  alabaster  toe  ? 

"  Did  you  hurt  your  foot, est  ?" 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  just  remembered  that  I  had  forgotten 
the  very  thing  that  I  came  to  the  Argo  to  talk  over 
with  you." 

"What  was  that?" 

Alice  looked  perplexed. 

«  Tell  me, ing ;  what  is  it  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  where  to  begin." 

"At  the  b-b-b-beginning,  of  course." 

"  With  some  people  I  should  ;  but  do  you  know  that 
you  are  a  very  queer  creature  ?" 

"  Your  fault ;  I  was  just  like  other  people  till  I  met 
you, — a  little  cracked  ever  since." 

"  Oh,  I  like  you  that  way."  And  she  gave  his  arm  a 
little  involuntary  squeeze.  [Nothing  of  the  kind.  Al.~\ 

"  How  am  I  queer,  then  ?" 

"  Well,  you  never  tell  people  anything." 

"  I  have  told  you  a  good  many  things  within  the  last 
day  or  two." 

"  Only  one  thing,  but  that  a  good  many  times.  But 
I  am  not  a  bit  tired  of  hearing  it." 

Here  Charley  gave  her  hand  a  voluntary  little  squeeze 
against  his  heart.  [Inadequate  statement  of  an  actual 
occurrence.  G.  F.~] 

"  The  fact  is,  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question,  and  am 
actually  afraid  you  won't  answer  it.  There,  I  knew 
you  would  not !  A  cloud  passed  over  your  face  at  th« 


THE   STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  305 

very  word  question.     You  are  so  strange  about  some 
things!" 

"Let's  hear  the  question  ;  what  is  it  about  ?" 

"  About  the  Don.  There !  Why,  you  are  positively 
frowning!" 

"Frowning!" 

"  Yes ;  your  face  hardened  as  soon  as  I  uttered  the 
word  Don." 

"  The  Don  !  What  am  I  supposed  to  know  about 
him  ?  Have  not  you  known  him  as  long  as  I,  and 
longer?" 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  going  to  ask  you  who  he  is,  or  any 
thing  of  that  kind.  I  presume  be  alone  knows  that." 
(Charley's  face  grew  serene.)  "  It  is  something  entirely 
different.  Is  the  Don — I  know  you  will  think  it  idle 
curiosity,  but,  indeed,  indeed,  it  is  not — is  the  Don — in 
love  ?" 

"  Is  the  Don  in  love  ?"  cried  Charley,  with  a  sudden 
peal  of  laughter.  "  Is  the  Don  in  love  ?  And  that  is 
the  weighty  question  that  you  have  made  such  a  pother 
about !  Is  the  Don  in  love  !" 

"  That  sounds  more  like  my  question  than  an  answer 
to  it." 

"  Now,  seriously,  my  — ous  — ing,  you  did  not  expect 
me  to  answer  such  a  question  as  that  ?" 

"  No,  I  didn't  I"  (A  little  snappishly.)  "  Any  other 
man — under  the  circumstances — " 

"  Yes,  I  believe  I  am  very  different  from  other  men, 
and  it  is  well ;  for  if  every  man  were  of  my  way  of 
thinking,  every  girl  in  the  world,  save  one,  would  bo 
deserted ;  and  soon  there  would  be  but  one  man  left  on 
earth, — such  a  Kilkenny  fight  would  rage  around  that 
one  girl !" 

"  I  knew  you  would  not  answer  my  question."  (Not 
snappishly.) 

"  How  am  I  to  know  anything  about  it  ?" 

"  You  and  he  are  inseparable — " 

"  And  hence  he  has  made  a  confidant  of  me,  and  I 
am  to  betray  him  ?  No,  he  has  never  alluded  to  any 
such  matter.  Upon  my  word,  I  know  nothing  what 
ever  upon  the  subject." 

u  26* 


306  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"Indeed?  You  are  a  droll  couple,  to  be  sure,"  and 
she  looked  up,  admiringly,  at  one-half  of  the  couple, 
"  talking  together  for  hours,  and  never  tolling  one  an 
other  anything  !  Well,  then,  I  shall  answer  the  ques 
tion  myself:  The  Don  is  in  love  :  there  I" 

"  What  extraordinary  creatures  women  are,  to  be 
sure !  You  ask  a  question,  are  vexed  at  getting  no 
answer,  and  then  answer  it  yourself  1  The  Don  is  in 
love,  then  ;  but  with  whom  ?" 

"  That  I  don't  know ;  I  only  suspect.  Oh,  yes,  I 
more  than  suspect ;  in  fact,  I  know,  but  some  of  the 
girls  don't  agree  with  me,  and  I  want  to  know  which 
side  you  are  on." 

"  On  yours,  of  course — " 

"No  joking;  I  am  in  earnest.  The  question  be 
tween  us  girls  is  this :  it  is  plain  to  us  all  that  he 
is  in  love — " 

"  Then,  why  on  earth — " 

"  Don't  you  know  that  when  you  wish  to  find  out 
about  one  thing  the  best  way  is  to  ask  about  an 
other?" 

"That  aphorism,  I  must  confess,  is  entirely  new  to 
me." 

"  "Well,  it  is  a  household  word  with  women.  Of 
course  he  is  in  love;  we — all  of  us  girls,  I  mean — 
know  that.  But  with  whom?  That  is  the  question 
which  divides  us." 

"  And  you  wish  to  put  that  conundrum  to  me  ? 
Indeed,  I  know  nothing  about  it." 

"Nor  suspect?" 

Charley  hesitated. 

"  Honor  bright?    Oh,  don't  be  so  hateful !" 

Charley  smiled  ;  Alice  saw  he  was  weakening. 

"  Oh,  do  tell  me,  which  of  the  two  ?" 

"  Which  of  the  two  ?"  repeated  Charley,  looking 
puzzled.  "Surely,  you  cannot  be  in  earnest;  for  of 
all  the  men  I  know,  Dory— the  D-D-D  Don"  [What, 
Charley,  stammering  on  a  mere  linguo-palatal  1]  "  is  tho 
least  likely  to  have  two  loves." 

"  Dody,  Dody !     Why  do  you  call  him  Dody  ?" 

"  I  called  him  the  Don,"  said  Charley,  doggedly. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  307 

"  And  Body,  too !  Why  Dody  ?  What  a  droll  nick 
name!"  And  she  laughed. 

"You  are  mistaken  ;  I  did  not  call  him  Dody." 

"You  didn't?" 

"  No ;  but  my  tongue,"  said  Charley,  coloring,  "  is 
like  a  mustang, — buck-jumps  occasional!}7,  and  unseats 
its  rider — her  rider." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon !"  said  Alice,  with  tender 
earnestness,  and  gave  his  arm — this  time  consciously — 
an  affectionate,  apologetic  squeeze.  [1  don't  deny  it! 
Al  Frob.~\ 

"  So  the  Don  is  not  only  a  lover,  but  a  double-bar 
relled  one  ?" 

"  No,  we  don't  think  that,"  said  Alice,  laughing ; 
"  but  there  is  a  dispute  among  us  which  of  two  birds 
he  wishes  to  bring  down." 

"  Which  of  two  birds  ?  Really,  you  puzzle  me,"  said 
Charley,  reflecting.  "  I  could  guess  the  name  of  one, 
perhaps;  but  the  other — I  am  completely  at  sea."  And 
he  looked  up  in  inquiry. 

"  Is  it  possible !  How  blind,  blind,  blind  you  men 
are!  And  yet  they  tell  me  that  nothing  ever  escapes 
your  lynx  eyes !  Why,  Lucy  and  Mary,  of  course." 

"Lucy  and  Mary!"  cried  Charley,  and,  throwing 
back  his  head,  he  exploded  with  a  shout  of  single-bai'- 
relled  amazement. 

"Wit  and  humor!"  " Eepeat,  repeat,  Alice !"  cried 
voices  from  the  piazza. 

The  strollers  looked  up  in  surprise  at  finding  them 
selves  so  near  the  porch,  while  the  occupants  of  this 
favorite  lounging-place  were  in  no  less  wonder  at  hear 
ing  Frobisher  giving  forth  so  unusual  a  sound.  Alice 
swept  the  faces  of  her  friends  with  a  bright  smile  of 
greeting,  but  there  was  a  certain  preoccupation  in  her 
look.  Charley's  laugh  had  startled  her.  "  Unconscious 
wit,  then ;"  and  turning,  she  looked  up  into  her  com 
panion's  face  with  a  puzzled  air. 

It  would  seem  that  that  sudden  and  unusual  draft 
upon  Charley's  cachinnatory  apparatus  had  exhausted 
that  mechanism,  for  he  was  not  even  smiling  now,  but 
in  what  is  called  a  brown  study.  He  slowly  turned  on 


308  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

his  heel  as  though  to  return  to  the  Argo,  or,  rather,  as 
if  he  had  no  intentions  of  any  kind,  his  movements 
being  directed  by  what  Dr.  Carpenter  calls  uncon 
scious  cerebration.  Alice,  holding  her  companion's 
arm,  turned  upon  him  as  a  pivot  (though  with  con 
scious  cerebration,  for  she  could  almost  feel  upon  the  back 
of  her  head  the  smiles  raying  forth  from  the  porch). 

"Mary  and  Lucy,  did  you  say?1'  inquired  he,  turn 
ing  quickly  upon  her  as  though  it  had  suddenly  flashed 
upon  him  that  he  had  not,  perhaps,  heard  aright. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Frobisher.     What  on  earth  is  the  matter?" 

"What's  the  matter?  Why,  nothing,  of  course. 
You  simply  amused  me,  that  is  all."  And  smiling 
stiffly,  he  threw  up  his  head  with  a  sort  of  shake  and 
made  as  though  he  would  join  the  party  on  the  porch. 

This  time  Alice  did  not  rotate  on  the  pivot,  but, 
standing  firm,  became  the  centre  of  revolution  herself, 
and  brought  Charley  to  a  "front  face"  again,  by  a 
sturdy  pull  upon  his  arm,  and  began  to  move  slowly 
forward,  as  though  to  return  to  the  Argo.  "  What  is 
it?"  asked  she,  looking  up  into  his  face  with  eager 
interest.  "  Do  tell  me  ?" 

"Tell  you  what?" 

"Why  you  act  so  strangely?  Which  of  the  two, 
then  ?" 

These  words  threw  Charley  into  his  brown  study 
again.  Looking  far  away,  with  drawn  lids,  he  was 
silent  for  some  time.  "  Alice,"  said  he,  turning  slowly 
and  looking  into  her  eyes,  "  I  am  going  to  surprise  you." 

"  Neither  Mary  nor  Lucy,  you  are  going  to  say !'' 
And  her  snowy  bosom  beat  with  thick-tbi'onging 
breaths.  "  O-o-oh,  I  know,"  cried  she,  with  a  look  of 
pain.  "  He  is  married  already  /" 

Yet  why  with  a  look  of  pain  ?  Ought  she  not  rather 
on  her  friend's  account  to  have  rejoiced?  But  here 
was  a  hero  evaporated  ;  and  in  this  humdrum  treadmill 
of  our  life  there  is  so  little  of  romance !  And  do  we  not 
all  of  us,  men  and  children  alike,  strain'  our  eyes 
against  the  darkened  sky,  regretful  that  the  flashing 
but  all  too  evanescent  meteor  has  passed  away  into  the 
abyss  of  night  ? 


THE  STORY   OF  DON  MIFF.  309 

Charley  smiled.  "  How  fearfully  and  wonderfully  is 
woman  made  !  You  first  ask  me  for  information  which 
I  do  not  possess,  but  which  it  appears  you  do,  then 
answer  your  own  question ;  then  when  I  am  about  to 
say  something,  you  tell  me  what  I  am  about  to  say ; 
and  then — with  a  little  shriek — discover  the  mare's 
nest  I  am  about  to  reveal !  No,  I  was  not  going  to 
say  '  neither  Lucy  nor  Mary,'  nor  yet  that  the  Don 
was  married.  I  was  about  to  make  a  proposition  to 
you.  Are  you  really  very  anxious  to  have  it  decided 
whether  it  is  Mary  or  Lucy  ?" 

"  Very." 

"  Then  I  know  but  one  way :   ask  the  Don  himself." 

"The  idea!"  cried  Alice,  with  a  cheery  laugh. 
"What!"  added  she,  looking  up  into  his  face  with 
great  surprise,  "  surely  you  are  not  in  earnest !" 

"lam." 

"  Mr.  Frobisher !" 

"  I  am.     I  said  1  was  going  to  surprise  you." 

Alice  wheeled  in  front  of  him,  and  they  stood  looking 
into  each  other's  eyes.  "  Upon — my — word,"  said  she, 
slowly,  "  I  believe  you  really  mean  it !" 

« I  do." 

"  Mr.  Frobisher !  Then,  if  it  be  so  important  to  you 
to  know,  why  don't  you  ask  him  yourself?" 

"  It  is  of  no  earthly  importance  to  me  to  know ;  it  is 
of  importance  to — to — to — him  to  be  asked  ?" 

"  You  awful  sphinx !  You  will  kill  me  with  curiosity! 
But  why  not  ask  him  yourself?  Why  put  it  on  me  ?" 

"  Because,"  said  Charley,  smiling, — "  simply  because  it 
is  your  question ;  you  want  the  answer  to  the  riddle, 
not  I !" 

"  That's  just  the  way  with  you  men,"  said  Alice, 
smiling ;  "  you  affect  to  be  lofty  beings,  superior  to  the 
foible,  curiosity.  And  so  you  would  make  a  cat's  paw 
of  me  ?" 

"  Well,  yes ;  for  it  is  you  who  want  the  chestnuts." 

"  And  my  fingers,  therefore,  are  to  be  burnt ;  for  this 
same  Mr.  Don  is  an  awful  somebody  to  approach." 

"  To  others,  perhaps,  but  not  to  you ;  nor  to  me, 
either,  perhaps;  but  the  chestnuts  are  for  you.  Be- 


310  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

sides,  as  Dido  said  to  her  sister  Anna,  you  know  the 
approaches  of  the  man  and  the  happy  moment.  How 
often  have  I  seen  every  one  quaking  with  awe  when 
j'ou  are  attacking  him  with  your  saucy  drolleries,  and 
how  charmed  he  always  is,  and  how  he  laughs!" 

"  And  poor  dear  mamma,"  said  Alice,  with  a  tender 
smile,  "  how  she  shakes  and  weeps  and  weeps  and 
shakes  1  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Frobisher,  though  I  say  it 
'  as  shouldn't,'  I  am  not,  by  half,  so  giddy  and  brainless  as 
I  seem?  Do  you  know  why  I  cut  up  so  many  didoes? 
(By  the  way,  I  wonder  whether  that  rather  colloquial 
phrase  has  any  reference  to  ^Eneas's  girl  ?)  But  it  is  the 
truth,  that  half  the  time  that  I  am  cutting  my  nonsen 
sical  capers,  it  is  just  to  make  mamma  laugh.  Ah, 
Mr.  Frobisher,  you  have  hardly  known  what  a  mother 
can  be,  and  you  will  have  to  love  minel  You  won't 
be  able  to  help  it."  And  the  cutter  of  capers  and  of 
didoes  passed  her  hand  across  her  eyes.  "  Look,"  said 
she  after  a  pause,  "  there  she  sits  now,  and  beside  the 
Don,  too.  Don't  she  look  serene?  See  how  she  is 
smiling  at  me  over  the  banister!"  And  throwing  her 
self  into  an  attitude,  she  blew  kiss  after  kiss  to  Her 
Serenity,  in  rapid  succession,  from  alternate  hands. 
"There!  she  is  off.  As  her  eyes  are  shut  tight,  she 
will  not  be  able  to  see  me  for  half  a  minute,  and  I  will 
take  the  opportunity  of  telling  you,  for  your  comfort, 
that  she  does  not  think  there  is  a  man  living  half  good 
enough  for  me.  How  do  you  feel  ?" 

"  I  feel  that  she  is  right!" 

"  And  I  feel  that  she  is  twice  wrong.  First,  because 
she  does  not  know  me,  and  secondly,  because  she  does 
not  know — somebody  I"  And  skipping  up  the  steps,  she 
ran  to  her  mother  and  bounced  into  her  lap:  "Are  you 
glad  to  see  me?  Did  you  think  I  was  never  coming 
back?" 

u  A  bad  penny  is  sure — " 

"Who's  a  bad  penny?"  And  taking*  the  plump 
cheeks  between  her  palms,  she  squeezed  the  sorono 
features  into  all  manner  of  grotesque  and  rapidly- 
changing  shapes.  "Who's  a  bad  penny?  Isn't  she  a 
beauty?"  said  she,  twisting  the  now  unresisting  head 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  311 

so  as  to  give  the  Don  a  full  view  of  the  streaming  eyes 
and  ludicrously  projecting  lips.  "  Behold  those  aesthetic 
lines !  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  she,  turning,  with  a 
quick  movement,  her  mother's  face  in  the  opposite 
direction,  "I  call  your  attention  to  the  Cupid's  bow  so 
plainly  discernible  in  the  curves  of  that  upper  lip. 
Can  you  wonder  that  papa  is  a  slave  ?  By  the  way," 
continued  she  in  the  same  breath,  and  taking  no  heed 
of  the  general  hilarity  that  she  had  aroused, — "  by  the 
•way,  Mr.  Don,  are  you  glad  to  see  me  ?"  But  without 
waiting  for  him  to  find  words  to  reply,  a  quizzical  look 
came  into  her  face  as  she  observed  that  with  the  beat 
of  her  mother's  laughter  her  own  person  was  gently 
bobbing  up  and  down,  as  though  she  rode  a  pacing 
horse:  "Snow-bird  on  de  ash-bank,  snow-bird  on  de 
ash-bank,  snow-bird  on  de  ash-bank,"  she  began,  in  a 
sort  of  Runic  rhythm,  or  shall  we  say  in  jig  measure  ? 
"  snow-bird  on  de  ash-bank ;"  and  from  her  curving 
wrists,  drawn  close  together  in  front  of  her  bosom,  her 
limp  hands  swung  and  tossed,  keeping  time,  jingling 
like  muffled  bells.  The  pacing  horse  now  broke  into  a 
canter,  and  the  canter  became  a  gallop  :  "  Ride  a  cock 
horse  to  Ban  bury  Cross,  ride  a  cock-horse  to  Banbury 
Cross!  This  steed  is  about  to  run  away;  discretion  is 
the  better  part."  And  springing  from  her  mother's  lap, 
she  stood  before  the  Don. 

"  Have  you  prepai'ed  your  answer  yet  ?  Are  you 
glad  to  see  me  once  more  ?" 

The  Don  put  his  hand  upon  his  heart.  Alice  ex 
tended  hers.  The  Don  took  it. 

"  You  have  not  answered  my  question." 

"  Words  cannot  ex — " 

"  Words  ?  Who  is  talking  about  words  ?"  And  she  ex 
tended  her  hand  again.  "  Press  that  lily  fair, — just  one 
little  squeeze.  She — the  rotund  smiler — won't  be  able 
to  see  for  half  a  minute  yet.  Quick!  She  is  wiping 
her  eyes !  Ah !  ah  !  ah !  Really  and  truly  ?  Enough  ! 
Desist !  We  are  observed  !" 

"  She  is  the  girl  to  tackle  him !"  thought  Charley, 
wiping  his  eyes. 


312  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

CHARLEY  was  right.  She  was  the  girl  to  tackle  him, 
if  he  was  to  be  tackled  at  all ;  but  Charley  knew  that 
better  than  the  reader,  who  has  had  merely  a  glimpse 
or  so  of  the  irrepressible  Alice  in  her  relations  with  the 
subject  of  this  Monograph.  For  Charley  had,  as  men 
tioned  in  the  last  chapter,  witnessed  innumerable 
scenes  between  the  two,  which  had  caused  him  to  wipe 
his  eyes  and  look  as  though  something  hurt  him ;  that 
being  his  way  of  laughing  before  he  was  married. 
This  being  a  Monograph,  however,  I  have  not  felt  at 
liberty  to  place  those  scenes  before  the  reader;  fora 
Monograph  is,  if  I  understand  the  term,  a  paper  rigidly 
confined  to  one  subject;  alien  topics  being  admitted 
only  as  illustrations  throwing  lighten  the  main  theme. 
So  that  the  monotony  of  this  narrative,  which  a  hasty 
reader  might  attribute  to  poverty  of  invention,  is  in 
fact  due  to  my  rigidly  artistic  adherence  to  the  Unities. 
A  Monograph  1  promised,  and  a  Monograph  this  shall  be. 

And  the  theme  is  not  Love. 

"  Then  why  did  you  not  say  so  at  first?"  I  hear  you 
ask,  my  Ah  Yung  Whack, — hear  you  say  this  in  plain 
English,  for  in  your  day  all  other  languages  will  bo  as 
dead  as  that  of  Cicero. 

I  cannot  blame  you  for  asking  the  question,  though 
the  answer  is  ready. 

Because  I  should  else  have  found  no  readers  among 
my  contemporaries.  The  readers — that  is,  the  people 
of  leisure — of  my  day  are  mostly  women  and  preach 
ers  (the  third  sex*  usually  having  all  they  can  do  to 
take  care  of  the  other  two),  arid  neither  will  bite  freely 
at  any  bait  save  Love.  They  will  nibble  at  the  hook, 
but  a  game  rush — bait,  hook,  and  all,  at  a  gulp — that 
is  elicited  only  by  a  novel.  Love  is  the  bait  now. 
Three  hundred  years  ago  it  was  Hate,  the  ODIUM  THEO- 
IOGICUM.  Three  hundred  years  hence  it  will  be — 

*  A  plagiarism  on  Rev.  Sydney  Smith — unconscious,  let  us  hope. — Ed. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  313 

out  I  cannot  guess  what,  and  you  will  know,  my  almond- 
eyed  boy, — almond-eyed  and  yellow  of  skin,  though 
swearing  by  Shakespeare,  and  perhaps  by  Magna-Charta 
and  Habeas  Corpus. 

If,  indeed,  in  your  day — but  enough !  and  so  fare 
thee  well,  Confucian  of  far  Cathay ! 

The  piazza  after  breakfast,  next  morning.  A  bright, 
sunny  day  in  the  beginning  of  February,  with  a  volup 
tuousness  in  the  air  hinting  at  the  approach  of  spring. 
"  How  beautiful  and  sparkling  the  river  looks !"  said 
one  of  the  girls.  "  And  just  to  think,"  she  added,  with 
a  little  stamp  of  her  little  foot,  "  we  must  bid  farewell 
to  it  so  soon  I" 

"  That  reminds  me,"  said  Alice,  rising  briskly  from 
the  rocking-chair,  in  which  she  reclined,  drinking  in 
the  balmy  air  and  bright  talk  in  half-dozing  silence. 
But  the  silence  and  half-closed  eyes  were  those  of  pussy 
awaiting  the  appearance  of  Mistiness  Mouse. 

"  That  reminds  me."  And  giving  a  quick  glance  at 
Charley,  as  she  passed  him,  she  marched  with  a  rapid, 
business-like  tread,  straight  up  to  the  Don.  Charley 
prepared  to  weep.  I  must  mention,  in  passing,  that 
his  way  of  weeping  over  Alice  differed  from  her 
mother's  in  this,  that  when  the  tears  stood  in  his  eyes, 
those  windows  of  the  soul  were  wide  open,  thereby 
revealing  the  fact  that  his  ribs  ached ;  whereas  Mrs. 
Carter's  being  shut  tight,  it  was  left  entirely  to  con 
jecture  whether  she  wept  from  pain  or  pleasure. 

Alice  planted  her  little  self  square  in  front  of  the 
towering  figure  of  the  Don,  and  looked  him  in  the  eyes 
as  though  expecting  him  to  begin  the  conversation. 

"  What  now,  sauce-box  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Carter,  quickly, 
as  though  she  felt  that  if  she  delayed  a  moment  longer 
she  would  become,  as  usual,  speechless ;  and  a  premo 
nitory  shake  or  two  passing  through  her  jolly  figure 
showed  that  her  prudence  was  not  ill-judged.  :<  What 
are  you  up  to  now  ?" 

"  Well?"  said  Alice,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  those  of 
the  Don. 

Charley  dried  his  with  his  handkerchief,  for  he  wanted 
to  see  everything.  The  Don  (I  regret  to  have  to  use 
o  27 


314  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MI  Ft. 

the  expression)  was  in  a  broad  grin.  As  to  Mrs.  Carter, 
the  faintest  thread  of  hazel  was  still  visible  between 
the  lids  of  her  fast-closing  orbs  of  light.  Alice  turned 
pettishly  on  her  heel,  and  with  her  eyes  retorted  over 
her  shoulder,  twirled  her  thumbs. 

It  was  evident  that  there  was  something  amiss  about 
Charley's  ribs.  Not  so  with  Mrs.  Carter ;  for  to  any 
one  surveying  her  person,  ribs  remained  the  merest 
hypothesis,  based  upon  the  analogy  of  other  verte 
brates  ;  but  the  upper  part  of  her  spinal  column  gave 
way ;  that  is,  she  lost  control  of  her  neck,  and  her 
head  rested  helplessly  against  the  back  of  her  chair. 

"  Well  ?" 

"  What  an  ornament  is  lost  to  the  stage  1"  laughed 
the  Don. 

"  The  stage  I  Are  we  not  enacting  a  real  life-drama? 
and"  (looking  down)  "  to  me  a  very  serious  one  ? 
And  I  have  been  looking  for  the  denouement  so  long — 
so  long  !" 

"  That  only  comes  at  the  end  of  the  play !" 

"  And  did  you  not  hear  what  Jennie  said  just  now  ? 
Another  short  week  only  is  left !  The  end  of  the  play 
has  come.  There  is  but  time  to  come  before  the  foot 
lights  and  say  our  last  say  1"  She  paused.  "  Hast 
thou  naught  to  say  to  me  ?"  resumed  she,  with  averted 
eyes,  and  in  a  stage-whisper. 

"  Naught  to  say  to  thee  ?"  replied  he,  falling  into  her 
vein.  "  Can'st  believe  thy  slave  so  flinty-hearted  ?" 

"  Forbid  the  thought !"  cried  she,  in  melodramatic 
tone  and  gesture.  "  No ;  long  have  I  felt  that  tbou 
had'st  some  sweet  whisper  for  me  o'er-hungry  ear,  but 
thy  bashful  reticence — I  deny  it  not — did  breed  in  me 
girlish  heart  a  most  rantankerous  doubt.  Speak !  Re 
move  this  doubt  rantankerous!  But  st!  One  ap 
proaches  !  Let's  seek  some  secluded  nook !  Beholdest 
yon  fateful  Argo  ?  On  !"  And  passing  her  arm  through 
his,  she  advanced  down  the  piazza  with  the  tread  and 
look  of  an  operatic  gipsy-queen  full  of  mezzo-soprano 
mystery,  which  she  is  to  unveil  before  the  foot-lights  ; 
while  he,  to  the  delight  and  amazement  of  the  specta 
tors,  strode  forward  in  the  well-known  wide,  yet  cautious 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  315 

tread  of  the  approaching  bandit ;  to  which  nothing  was 
lacking  save  the  muffling  cloak  and  the  pizzicato  on  the 
double-basses. 

Beaching  the  steps.  "  On  1"  cried  she,  flashing  forth 
an  arm.  "  Descend  1" 

"  Encore  !  Encore  !"  shouted  the  audience,  to  which 
she  deigned  no  reply,  and  the  pair  stepped  upon  the 
turf. 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  the  '  Daughter  of  the  Regi- 
ment'  ?"  asked  she,  halting  and  speaking  in  her  natural 
manner.  "  But  of  course  you  have.  Strange  to  relate, 
I  have  myself  heard  it  twice.  You  remember  the 
Rataplan  duet?  Of  course.  Well,  I  am  what's-her- 
name,  and  you  are  the  old  sergeant !  Come  1"  And 
with  that  she  strutted  gayly  off,  rattling  an  imaginary 
drum  with  rare  vivacity. 

Again  the  Don  was  not  to  be  outdone ;  rubadubbing, 
to  the  surprise  of  all,  in  a  deep  sonorous  voice ;  strutting, 
who  but  he,  and  every  inch  a  soldier. 

Vociferous  applause  1  The  actors  turned  and  bowed 
low. 

"Unprecedented  enthusiasm!"  (whispered  Alice) 
"the  Gallery  has  tumbled  into  the  Pit!" 

Which  was  true ;  for  the  audience  had  rushed  pell- 
mell  upon  the  lawn,  Mrs.  Carter  alone  remaining  upon 
the  porch,  unable,  for  the  present,  to  rise,  her  chubby 
hands  darting  in  every  direction  in  vain  search  for  her 
handkerchief. 

For  the  moment  the  household  service  at  Elmington 
was  disorganized,  and  grinning  heads  protruded  from 
the  chamber  windows.  Let  them  grin  on  !  In  those 
days  there  was  time  for  play,  as  well  as  for  work. 

"  Umgh — umgh,  heish !"  ejaculated  Uncle  Dick,  from 
his  pantry  window.  "Miss  Alice  are  a  oner,  /  tell 
you !" 

What  our  august  butler  meant  by  "  hush !"  I  can 
not  say,  as  Zip  had  uttered  no  word.  Perhaps  he  was 
shutting  up  some  imaginary  person,  conceived  as  about 
to  deny  the  proposition  that  Miss  Alice  was  a  "  oner." 

"  Hein  ?"  (pronounce  as  though  French),  said  Zip, 
walling  up  his  eyes. 


316  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  Wash  dem  dishes,  boy  I  Do  you  'spose  I  was  gwine 
for  to  'dress  no  remarks  to  de  likes  of  you  'bout  a 
young  mistiss?  Mind  you  business,  and  stop  gapin' 
through  de  window  1" 

Moses  made  a  show  of  obedience,  rattling  the  plates 
together  with  unusual  vigor;  but  for  all  that  he  craned 
his  neck  for  a  view  of  the  lawn,  keeping  a  weather 
eye  out,  the  while,  upon  the  ready  right  hand  of  his 
chief, — a  man  of  summary  methods  with  his  subordi 
nates. 

"  Come,"  said  Alice,  "  a  repeat  is  demanded."  And 
away  they  went,  rubadubbing  back  towards  the  piazza. 
"  Eataplan !  Eataplan !  Rataplan  !" 

This  time  (on  the  antistrophe)  Alice  outdid  herself. 
Tossing  her  head  from  side  to  side,  with  an  inimitable 
mixture  of  reckless  coquetry  and  military  precision ; 
her  jaunty  little  figure  stiffened  and  thrown  back ;  tap 
ping  the  ground  with  emphatic  foot-falls,  she  was,  in 
all  save  costume,  an  ideal  vivandiere.  She  glanced  at 
Charley  as  she  approached  him. 

"  Eataplan  I  Eataplan !  Eataplan  I"  thundered  the 
Don. 

"  Eataplan !     Eataplan !     Eataplan !"  chirped  Alice. 

In  obedience  to  the  glance  he  had  received,  Charley 
leaned  forward ;  and  just  as  she  passed  him  a  saucy 
toss  of  her  head  brought  her  lips  within  an  inch  or  so 
of  his  attentive  ear.  "  Eataplan !  I've  a  plan,  rataplan, 
plan,  plan,  plan  ;"  and  the  couple  reaching  the  steps, 
the  Don  bowed  in  acknowledgment  of  the  joyous 
applause  of  the  Pit;  while  Alice,  her  hand  resting 
lightly  in  his,  after  the  manner  of  prime  donne,  exe 
cuted  a  series  of  the  most  elaborate  courtesies  ever 
witnessed  on  or  off  any  stage. 

"And  now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  hasten  to  the  side 
show  !  Within  this  tent,"  said  she,  waving  her  hand 
towards  the  porch,  "  sits  enthroned  the  Fat  Woman, 
better  known  as  The  Great  American  Undulator.  Only 
twenty-five  cents,  children  a  quarter  of  a  dollar  I  A 
strictly  moral  show,  and  all  for  the  benefit  of  the 
church!  Unlike  the  fiendish  hyena,  her  mocking 
laughter  never  curdles  the  blood  of  the  living,  while 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  317 

8he  ravens  among  the  bones  of  the  dead.  Twen-ty-five 
cents!  Warranted  not  to  laugh  aloud  in  any  climate; 
but  has  been  known  to  smile  in  the  face  of  the  fabled 
hyena  aforesaid,  well  knowing  that  she  has  no  bones, 
herself,  for  his  midnight  mockery.  Children,  a  quar-ter 
of  a  dollar!  Walk  in,  gentlemen,  and  take  your  sweet 
hearts  with  you,  and  see  The  Unrivalled  Anatomical 
Paradox,  or  The  Boneless  Yertebrate ;  known  through 
out  this  broad  land  as  The  Great  American  Undulator. 
A  strictly  moral  show,  only  twenty-five  cents,  and  all 
for  the  benefit  of  the  church  1  Children — but  I  detain 
the  primo  basso,"  said  she,  bowing  gravely  to  that 
gentleman,  as  she  passed  her  arm  within  his.  "We 
will  now  hie  us  to  the  Fateful ;  since  you  insist  on 
asking  me,  at  that  spot  only,  » what  are  the  wild  waves 
saying?'  or  is  it  some  other  question,  perhaps? — be 
still,  my  heart  1" 

The  Don  was  never  so  happy  as  when  Alice  was 
girding  at  him  in  one  of  her  frolic  moods,  and  he  sallied 
forth  in  high  good  humor.  The  audience  watched 
from  the  piazza  for  some  new  mad  prank  on  Alice's 
part,  but  she  walked  slowly  forward,  and  even  seemed 
to  be  talking  about  the  weather.  At  any  rate,  she 
raised  her  hand  towards  certain  flying  clouds. 

"  The  saucy  jade !"  said  Mrs.  Carter,  with  ill-con 
cealed  admiration.  "Well,  I  suppose  she  is  a  privi 
leged  character,  as  the  saying  is." 

"  I  should  like  to  know,  Mrs.  Carter,  how  we  are  to 
get  on  without  her  ?"  said  Mr.  Whacker.  "  If  I  were 
thirty  or  forty  years  younger — but  there  is  Charley ; 
eh,  Mr.  Mum?" 

"  If,"  replied  Mr.  Mum,  "  I  were  such  as  you  were 
thirty  or  forty  years  ago,  Uncle  Tom,  I  don't  think 
she  could  possibly  escape." 

"  And  what  would  become  of  me,  then  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Carter.  "  How  far  are  they  going  ?  I  believe  she  is 
actually  going  to  take  him  to  the.Argo,  as  they  call  it. 
There  they  go,  straight  on  ;  he  is  helping  her  into  the 
boat  now  ;  well,  upon  my  word  !  What  is  she  up  to  ? 
This  bright  sun  will  tan  her  dreadfully,  of  course,  but 
little  she  cares !  She  might  raise  her  parasol,  at  least, 

27* 


318  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

instead  of  poking  holes  in  the  sand,  as  she  seems  to  be 
doing." 

"Frightened?  Yes,  dreadfully,"  said  Alice,  giving 
her  collaborators  an  account  of  the  interview.  "  Of 
course  I  was ;  but  I  was  '  wtermined,'  as  poor  old  Uncle 
Dick  used  to  say,  to  go  through  with  it.  You  see,  my 
liege-lord  that  was  to  be — Mr.  Chatterbox,  I  mean," 
tapping  Charley  with  her  fan — "  had,  the  evening  be 
fore,  commanded — " 

"  Commanded  1  Oh  !"  said  Charley,  darting  his  fore 
finger  as  an  exclamation-point  into  the  middle  of  a 
smoke-ring. 

"  Yes,  commanded  me  to  do  it.  I  see,  Jack,  that  you 
have  left  out  that  part  of  our  talk  (to  make  room  for 
more  of  your  own  nonsense,  I  suppose)  in  your  account 
of  our  conversation ;  but  just  as  I  was  about  to  run  up 
the  steps,  he  stopped  me  and  whispered,  '  Mind,  I  wish 
ft/"1 

"  Oho !"  cried  Charley,  brushing  away  with  a  sweep 
of  his  hand  a  wreath  that  would  not  work,  "  that's  the 
way  I  talked  then,  was  it?" 

"  Yes,  that  was  what  you  said,  and  I — rather — liked 
it." 

"  Hear,  hear  I"  murmured  Charley,  his  left  eye  shut, 
and  slowly  moving  his  head,  so  as  to  keep  the  open 
centre  of  a  whirling  smoke-wreath  between  his  right 
oye  and  a  certain  portrait  on  the  wall. 

"  You  know,  Jack,  every  real  woman  likes  the  man 
to  be  master." 

"  Hear,  hear  I"  gurgled  Charley,  in  a  rather  choking 
voice ;  for  by  this  time,  in  his  eifort  to  keep  his  eye 
on  a  fly  on  the  ceiling  (the  ring  having  floated  away 
from  the  picture  and  over  his  head),  he  had  leaned  his 
head  so  far  back  that  (to  speak  rather  as  a  Bush 
whacker  than  as  an  anatomist)  his  Adam's  apple  was 
impinging  on  his  vocal  cords. 

Alice  glanced  from  Charley  to  me,  and  tapped  her 
forehead  gently  with  her  fan,  just  as  Charley  snapped 
his  head  back  from  its  constrained  position.  "  Clothed," 
said  she,  "  but  not  altogether  in  his  right  mind.  But 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.          .         319 

we  shall  never  get  done  if  we  go  on  in  this  way.  Come ! 
But  before  I  go  any  further,  Jack,  I  must  ask  you  to 
remember  that  I  was  not  as  well  acquainted  with  the 
Don  at  this  time,  as  any  reader  would  be  who  had  read 
your  book  up  to  this  point.  I  see  that  you  call  him  a 
'  man  of  surprises'  (a  rather  Frenchified  phrase,  by  the 
way) ;  but  please  bear  in  mind  that  the  only  surprise 
he  had  ever  caused  me  was  when  he  bloomed  forth  as 
a  violinist.  All  the  other  surprises  were  devoured  by 
this  Silent  Tomb,"  said  she,  glancing  towards  Charley. 
Him,  detected  in  the  act  of  smoothing  with  his  pipe- 
stem  the  jagged,  interior  edges  of  a  blue  annulus,  she 
brought  to  his  senses  by  a  sharp  fan-tap  on  his  head. 

"  What  is  to  become  of  our  Monograph  if  you  go  on 
in  this  way?" 

"  Monograph  ?  I  thought  you  were  on  a  polygraph, 
or  a  pantograph,  and  was  amusing  myself  till  you  came 
back  to  the  subject." 

"  Very  true.  Well,  I  took  my  seat  in  the  stern,  and 
he  sat  opposite  me,  looking  much  amused,  and  very 
curious  to  know  what  my  whim  was.  I  think  I  was  a 
'girl  of  surprises'  when  I  began.  'Do  you  know,  Mr. 
Don,'  said  I,  '  are  you  aware  that  you  are  a  Fiend  in 
Human  Shape?'  He  burst  out  laughing.  He  obvi 
ously  thought  that  I  was  unusually  crazy,  even  for  me. 
'No,'  said  he,  'I  can't  say  that  I  ever  appeared  to 
myself  in  that  light ;  but  we  will  suppose  that  you  are 
right;  what  then?'  And  he  settled  himself  to  be 
amused.  I  was  far  from  amused,  I  assure  you.  I  was 
at  my  wit's  end,  not  knowing  what  to  say  next,  so  I 
began  to  make  holes  in  the  sand  (as  observed  by  the 
lynx-eyed  Boneless).  Give  a  dog  a  bad  name  and  kill 
him ;  get  the  reputation  of  being  a  wag — should  I  say 
waggess  ? — and  your  simplest  acts  amuse.  As  I  looked 
down  I  could  see,  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye,  his 
•wondering  smile.  I  felt  that  he  mistook  my  embar 
rassment  for  archness,  and  that  my  silence  was,  in  his 
eyes,  an  artistic  rhetorical  pause.  By  the  way,  to 
change  the  subject"  (Charley  groaned  and  received  a 
rap),  "  that's  where  we  women  have  the  advantage  of 
men.  You  are  the  besieging  army,  we  the  beleaguered 


320  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

city.  We  can  see  any  confusion  in  your  ranks,  while 
a  panic  behind  our  walls  is  invisible  to  you.  If  you 
feel  confused,  you  imagine  that  you  look  so ;  and  then 
you  do  look  so.  It  is  different  with  us.  We  know — " 

Here  Charley  seized  his  pipe  and  began  filling  it  with 
the  most  obtrusive  vigor.  "  Conundrum  !"  said  he, 
claiming  attention  with  uplifted  forefinger. 

"  Well  ?" 

"  What  is  the  difference  between  a  woman's  tongue 
and  a  perpetual-motion  machine?  Answer:  I  give  it 
up!" 

As  I  could  never  learn  to  whirl  smoke-wreaths,  I 
twirled  my  thumbs  during  the  interruption  of  our  ses 
sion  that  ensued.  The  bashful  and  evasive  Charley 
upset  every  chair  in  the  room,  save  mine,  behind  which 
he  was  ultimately  captured  and  punished.  "  Pshaw  I 
Who  minds  Jack?"  said  Alice,  stooping  to  right  her 
rocking-chair.  "  Ugh !  How  smoky  your  moustache 
is!" 

"  I  never  heard  anything  like  that  while  we  were 
engaged." 

"  And  for  a  very  good  reason,"  said  she,  with  a  toss 
of  her  head. 

"  Illustrious  Boeotian !"  sighed  Charley. 

Alice  threw  herself  into  her  chair,  panting  and  laugh 
ing.  "  Where  was  I  ?" 

"  You  were  without  a  compass,  in  a  word-ocean  with 
out  a  shore." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  was  on  the  shore,  and  poking 
holes  in, the  sand.  'Well,'  said  the  Don,  'what  should 
be  done  to  a  man  who  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  a 
Fiend  in  Human  Shape  ?' 

" '  J  should  say  that  he  needed  a  guardian.  He  lacks 
the  warning  voice  of  a  mother.' 

" '  But  we  will  suppose  that  he  has  no  mother.' 

" '  Then  let  him  find  one.  How,  for  example,'  said 
I,  feeling  my  way,  '  how  do  you  think  that  I  would 
look  the  character.'  And  I  put  on  a  demure  expression. 

" '  Admirably,  admirably !' 

" '  Then  you  adopt  me  as  a  mother?' 

" '  Yes.' 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF,  321 

" '  A  mother  with  a  warning  voice  ?'  I  added,  begin- 
ning  to  find  my  soundings. 

"  '  A  mother  with  a  voice  soft  as  a  zephyr  1" 

"  '  No,  with  a  voice  of  warning.' 

"  Up  to  this  time  he  had  been  watching  me  some 
what  with  the  expression  of  a  child  when  some  one  is 
about  to  touch  the  spring  of  a  Jack-in-the-Box.  Up  I 
was  going  to  bounce,  in  some  high  antic  or  other.  But 
just  here  his  countenance  took  on  a  look  of  perplexity. 
I  suppose  my  voice  became  one  of  warning.  Can't  I 
talk  seriously  sometimes,  Mr.  Frobisher?" 

"You?     Oh,  Lord!" 

"  Well,  you  needn't  be  so  emphatic.  What  will  Jack 
think?" 

"  Pshaw !     Who  minds  Jack  ?    Ouch !" 

"  Well,  where  was  I  ?  Ah !  '  No,  with  a  voice  of 
warning,'  said  I,  looking  rather  grave,  I  suppose. 
'  Very  well,'  said  he,  '  with  a  voice  of  warning.'  '  I 
am  your  mother,  then?'  'Yes.'  'And  you  are  my 
son  ?'  '  Yes,  rnumma,'  said  he,  smiling,  and  holding  up 
his  knee  with  interlaced  fingers  and  looking  very  com 
fortable. 

" '  My  son,'  said  I,  with  perfect  gravity,  and  feeling 
very  uncomfortable.  '  My  dear  child,  I  need  not  tell 
you  that  I  feel  all  a  mother's  affection  for  you.  I  have 
given  you  so  many  proofs  of  this  ever  since  I  trotted 
you  on  my  foot,  a  wee  thing, — you,  not  the  foot, — that 
I  do  not  feel  called  upon  to  add  any  more  evidence  of 
the  love  I  bear  you.'  'Darling  mumpsy!'  said  he. 
You  may  look  incredulous,  but  he  said  it.  '  But  no  one 
is  perfect,' — he  nodded ;  '  then  you  will  not  be  surprised 
to  hear  that  your  loving  mother  sees  in  you.  mingled 
with  many  excellencies  that  make  her  proud,  some 
faults, — one  fault  at  least  ?  You  will  not  feel  hurt  ? 
Consider  your  head  patted.'  And  I  began  again  poking 
holes  in  the  sand.  '  What  is  my  crime  ?  Speak,  mother 
dear  ?'  '  You  are  a  handsome  young  man.'  '  Ah,  but 
how  could  I  help  that,  with  such  a  lovely  little  mother  ?' 
'  No  frivolity,  my  child ;  no  bandying  compliments  with 
your  old  mother.  No  matter  whence  your  good  looks 
are  derived,  you  are  devastatingly  handsome — ' " 


322  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  How  could  you  say  such  a  thing  to  a  man's  face, 
Alice?" 

"To  put  him  in  good  humor.  You  are  all  vain,  you 
know. 

"  Upon  that  he  threw  back  his  head  and  gave  a 
shout  of  laughter.  '  Go  on,'  said  he,  lolling  back  and 
nursing  his  knee  as  before.  '  No,'  said  I, '  the  fatal  gift 
of  beauty  is  not  a  crime  in  itself;  it  is  the  use  one — ' 

"  'Do  you  know,'  said  he,  interrupting  me  and  lean 
ing  forward  with  deep  conviction  in  his  eyes,  '  that  you 
are  the  most  extraordinary  girl — I  mean  mother — that 
I  ever  encountered  ?  You  ought  to  write ;  it  is  your 
positive  duty.  So  much  brightness — tit  for  tat,  you 
know — ought  not  to  waste  its  sweetness,  etc.  Have 
you  never  thought  of  writing  a  book  ?'  '  Not  I, — Mary 
Eolfe  is  our  genius ;  I  leave  that  to  her.' 

"  His  face  flushed  slightly,  and  instantly  I  changed 
my  whole  plan  of  campaign.  I  had  been  making  a 
reconnoissance  under  cover  of  the  mother  and  son  fic 
tion  ;  but  like  a  wide-awake  general,  I  now,  seeing  the 
enemy  in  confusion,  unmasked  my  batteries  and  opened 
fire ;  that  is,  I  dropped  my  parasol  and  sprang  towards 
him  with  an  anxious  look :  '  Are  you  ill  ?'  I  asked. 

"  His  face  grew  crimson,  for  he  knew  what  I  meant. 
You  see  he  had  once  or  twice  heard  me  making  fun  of 
a  certain  threadbare  trick  of  the  novelists.  It  would 
seem  that  characters  in  romances  never  have  the  least 
idea  that  any  one  is  in  love  with  any  one.  One  party 
casually  mentions  to  a  second  party  the  name  of  a  third 
party.  Instantly  party  No.  2  changes  color.  '  Are  you 
ill  ?'  cries  No.  1.  '  It  is  nothing,'  gasps  No.  2 ;  '  it  will 
pass  in  a  moment.'  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Charley,  "  and  how  singular  it  is  that  No. 
1  never  for  a  moment  suspects  the  truth,  but  invariably 
goes  off  under  the  conviction  that  the  poor  heroine  has 
eaten  something  indigestible, — has  a  pain — nay,  even 
— who  minds  Jack  ? — an  ache !" 

"  How  shrewd  a  device !"  said  Alice,  laughing.  "  The 
author  lets  the  reader  know,  while  concealing  it  from 
the  actors  in  the  drama,  that  the  poor  girl  is  desper 
ately  gone." 


THE   STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  323 

"Yes,"  added  Charley;  "the  author  may  be  said  to 
tip  the  reader  a  wink,  'unbeknownst' — behind  No.  1's 
back.  Now  don't,  Alice;  do  sit  down  and  let's  go  on. 
That's  right.  Why,  in  a  novel,  even  a  physician  would 
ask,  'Are  you  ill?' — even  he  could  not  distinguish  be 
tween  the  indications  of  love  and  the  symptoms  of 
colic." 

"  In  one  word,"  said  Alice,  "  those  words  make  a  book 
a  novel, — and  their  absence  makes  this — a  sym — " 

Charley  here  burst  into  a  quotation,  speaking  fear 
fully  through  his  nose  :  "  Of  this  disease  the  great  Napo 
leon  died.  Some  say  that  Napoleon  was  a  great  man  ; 
some  say  that  Washington  was  a  great  man  ;  but  I  say 
that  true  greatness  consists  in  moral  grandeur.  With 
this  brief  digression,  gentlemen,  we  will  resume  our 
subject." 

"  Why,  who  on  earth  could  have  said  that  ?"  cried 
Alice  ;  "  it  is  immense  1" 

"Have  you  never  heard  Jack  or  myself  quote  it 
before?  It  was  the  one  solitary  gem  of  rhetoric  in  the 
annual  course  of  lectures  delivered  by  old  P-P-P-P — too 
many  confounded  p-p-p-p's!  Imitate  his  example, — > 
resume !" 

"  Where  did  I  leave  him  ?  Ah !  '  Are  you  ill  ?'  said 
I,  and  he  blushed  as  red  as  a  rose.  I  waited  a  moment, 
then  said,  '  You  have  lost  the  cue ;  repeat  after  me, — • 
"It — is — nothing!"'  'It  is  nothing,'  repeated  he;  'it — 
will — soon — pass!  it  will  soon  pass.' 

"  '  Will  it  ?'  said  I,  charging  bayonets.  '  That  is  the 
question,  Mr.  Don,'  said  I,  folding  my  arms, — these  two, 
not  the  bayonets, — 'you  are  in  love!'  I  looked  him 
straight  in  the  eyes,  for  my  blood  was  up !  My  fear 
was  all  gone !" 

("  It  has  never  come  back !"  said  Charley.) 

'"To  deny  it  would  be  useless  as  well  as  ungallant. 
Who  would  believe  me  ?  Constantly  associated  for  so 
long  with  a  bevy  of  charming — ' 

"  '  A  bevy !  Are  you  enamoured  of  the  whole  flock  ? 
Is  there  no  bright  particular  star?  May  I  make  a 
guess  ?  Ah,  I  see  I  need  not  name  her.' 

" :  Miss  Carter,'  said  he,  after  a  pause,  '  you  seem  sd 


324  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

different  from  your  usual  self  this  morning!  Or  are 
you  merely  laying  a  train  for  a  phenomenal  display  of 
fire- works  ?  Are  you  in  earnest,  or  are  you  preparing 
to  blow  me  up  with  an  explosion  of  fun  ?' 

"  '  I  am  in  earnest,  and  I  am  going  to  blow  you  up, 
too.  Listen:  but  before  broaching  my  main  topic,  I 
must  say  one  word  on  Mary  Rolfe.' 

" '  I  had  thought  that  she  was  to  be  the  main  theme 
of  your  sermon.' 

" '  Of  course  you  thought  so, — perfectly  natural,  the 
wish  being  father  to  the  thought'  How  that  made 
him  blush  and  stammer, — almost  as  badly  as  the  Silent 
Tomb  in  its  courting  days.  Now,  boys"  (meaning  her 
husband  and  the  subscriber),  "  I  leave  it  to  you :  wasn't 
I  a  regular  Macchiavelli ?  Didn't  I  manage  it  neatly? 
You  see  it  would  not  have  done  to  let  him  see  that  I 
was  acting  as  Mary's  friend,  even  though  without  her 
knowledge  and  consent ;  and  she  would  never  have 
forgiven  me.  So,  at  the  veiy  outset,  I  planted  an  in 
terrogation-point  in  his  mind.  '  What  is  she  coming  to  ?' 
he  kept  thinking ;  but  I  was  there  already.  I  had  made 
my  reconnoissance  and  found  out  where  the  enemy  was 
weak;  but,  as  you  veterans  know,  after  a  reconnois 
sance,  the  trouble  is  to  get  back  to  camp  without  loss. 
This  is  how  I  managed  that:  'To  begin,'  said  I,  'with 
Mary  Rolfe.  Her  you  love.  That's  admitted  ?  Well, 
silence  gives  consent.  Now,  whether  you  have  told  her 
so  in  words  or  not  is  more  than  I  can  tell ;  for,  al 
though  Mary  and  I  are  very  intimate,  girls  do  not — ' " 

"  Oh !"  grunted  Charley. 

"  Well,  in  theory  they  do  not,"  replied  Alice,  laughing. 

" '  Whether  you  have  told  her  in  words,'  said  I — 

" '  I  have  told  her  neither  in  words  nor  otherwise,' 
said  he. 

" '  Indeed,'  said  I,  '  that's  strange  1  strange,  that  you 
should  have  kept  her  alone  in  darkness.  You  must  be 
aware  that  you  have  told  every  one  else,  as  plainly  as 
looks,  at  least,  can  speak.  But  I  must  proceed ;  /  have 
no  time  to  discuss  that.'  '  One  moment, — you  say  that 
my  looks  have  revealed  my  sentiments.  Are  you  quite 
sure  of  this  ?'  '  The  fabled  ostrich  and  the  sand !'  said 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  325 

I,  laughing.  'Confound  it!  Excuse  me, — well,  I  suppose 
I  deceive  myself,  as  other  men  do.  There  is  our  friend 
Charley,  for  instance,  the  woman-hater!  Now,  he 
fondly  imagines  that  nobody  knows  that  he  adores 
somebody !' " 

"  Fondly !     H'm !     Well,  go  on,"  said  Charley. 

"  I  colored  faintly  at  this,  for  blushing  is  becoming  to 
mo.  'And,  yet,'  said  I,  'I  venture  to  say  that  the 
Homebody  in  question  knew  what  was  taking  place  in 
his  mind  even  before  he  suspected  it.'  '  Did  you  really?' 
asked  he.  '  I  have  no  doubt  she  did,'  said  I.  '  All 
women  are  alike  in  that,'  I  added ;  '  but  let  us  proceed.' 
' One  moment,'  said  he ;  'if  all  women  are  alike  in  this 
intuitive  power,  then  I  infer  that  Miss  Holfe  cannot 
fail  to  have  remarked  that  I — '  Here  I  gave  my  shoul 
ders  a  diplomatic  shrug,  which  brought  him  to  a  dead 
pause.  He  nodded  his  head  gently  up  and  down  a  little 
while,  and  seemed  in  great  perplexity.  '  Miss  Carter,' 
said  he,  suddenly  looking  up,  'will  you  be  my  friend 
and  advise  me  ?'  '  I  am  your  friend,'  said  I,  '  and  will 
do  what  I  can  in  the  way  of  advice.'  Then  he  looked 
down  for  a  long  time,  his  face  all  corrugated  with  cross- 
purposes.  My  blood  began  to  run  a  little  chill.  Was 
the  great  mystery  about  to  be  revealed  ? 

" '  You  say  that  by  my  bearing  and  looks  I  have,  to 
all  intents  and  purposes,  declared  myself  a  lover  of  Miss 
Rolfe.  Now,  suppose — and  I  pledge  you  my  word  that 
it  is  so — suppose  all  this  was  unintentional  on  my  part; 
suppose  that  I  have  striven  not  to  show  just  what  you 
say  I  have  shown,' — he  paused  again  as  before.  'No,' 
said  he,  resuming,  in  a  half-musing  way,  as  though  he 
thought  aloud,  '  I  don't  see  how  I  can  lay  the  whole 
case  before  her'  (meaning  me,  I  suppose).  '  Ah,'  said 
he,  his  face  brightening,  '  let  us  suppose  a  case.  Sup 
pose  I  loved  you  dearly, — a  very  supposable  case,  by 
the  way, — and  you  did  not  suspect  it.'  '  Not  a  suppos 
able  case;  but  go  on.'  'Well,'  said  he,  smiling,  'at  that 
wharf,  yonder,  lies  a  ship  ready  to  sail.  I  am  to  go  in 
her  to  seek  my  fortune  in  the  wide  world,  somewhere; 
ought  I  to  speak,  or  would  it  not  be  nobler  to  bid  you 
farewell  with  my  secret  locked  in  my  breast?' 

28 


326  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  I  saw,  of  course,  how  matters  stood.  The  supposed 
case  was  a  purely  imaginary  one.  His  perplexity  had 
been  due  to  the  difficulty  of  avoiding  all  allusion  to  his 
incognito.  '  I  don't  pretend  to  know  which  would  be 
the  nobler  course  for  you ;  but  /  should  want  to  know 
it,  and  hear  it  from  your  own  lips,  too,  were  you  to  be  off 
for  Japan  in  fifteen  minutes.  The  sweetest  music  in  the 
world  to  a  woman's  ears  is  the  voice  of  a  man  telling  her 
that  he  loves  her ;  and  it  is  music  of  so  potent  a  charac 
ter,  that  it  often  melts  a  heart  that  was  cold  before.' 

"  That  shot  told.  He  threw  his  head  back,  like  a 
horse  taking  the  bit  between  his  teeth.  It  was  plain  that 
he  had  formed  a  resolution  of  some  sort.  By  the  way, 
Jack,  I  could  never  understand  how  so  transparent  a 
man  as  the  Don,  showing  his  inmost  feelings  with  every 
glance  of  his  eye,  and  every  movement  of  his  features ; 
with  a  face  which  was  a  barometer  of  his  slightest  emo 
tions,  could  ever  have  kept  a  secret.  Here  is  the  S.  T., 
on  the  other  hand.  Whisper  a  secret  into  hi§  ear,  and 
it  is  like  dropping  a  stone  into  an  artesian  well.  It  is 
the  last  you  ever  hear  of  it.  There  may  be  a  subterra 
nean  splash,  but  you  never  see  it.  But  the  Don's  face 
always  reminded  me  of  a  lake  that  the  merest  pebble 
causes  to  ripple  from  shore  to  shore. 

"  Well,  the  reconnoissance  was  a  perfect  success,  and 
all  that  was  left,  as  I  thought,  was  to  retire  under 
cover  of  a  rattling  skirmish  fire.*  Very  naturally,  I  did 
not  suspect  that  my  position  was  mined.  But  it  was ; 
and  I  trod  on  the  percussion  fuse. 

" '  Well,'  said  I,  '  I  don't  suppose  you  would  ever  get 
tired  of  hearing  me  talk  about  Mary,  but  you  have 
never  heard  the  mother's  "  warning  voice"  yet,  and  you 
know  you  came  to  the  Fateful  Argo  to  hear  that.' 

"'That's  true!  Would  you  mind  if  I  lit  a  cigar? 
Thanks  1"  And,  opening  my  parasol,  he  struck  a  light 
behind  it,  and  began  puffing  away,  with  his  head 
thrown  back,  and  nursing  his  knee,  as  before;  the  pic 
ture  of  serene  contentment.  His  face  was  calm  as  the 


•  How  strange,  even  pathetic,  is  the  sound  of  these  military  metaphors 
from  a  woman's  lips. — Ed 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  327 

placid  little  lake  of  which  I  spoke  just  now,  and  he 
looked  as  though,  the  absorbing  question  in  his  mind 
being  set  at  rest,  he  was  at  my  service,  to  be  amused 
and  entertained. 

"  'A  man  of  your  wide  experience,  Mr.  Don,'  said  I, 
beginning  the  skirmishing,  'must  have  remarked  the 
fact  that  girls  will  talk.' 

"  '  True,  very  true  !'  And  with  dreamy,  half-smiling, 
uplifted  eyes,  he  thrust  his  cigar  into  the  other  corner 
of  his  mouth,  as  though  by  anticipation  he  rolled 
under  his  tongue  some  morsel  of  my  nonsense.  '  Go 
on,  laughter-compelling  siren  I' 

"  '  Again,  you  cannot  fail  to  have  observed  that  girls, 
being  wound  up  to  talk,  by  nature,  must  needs  talk 
about  one  another  or — the  rest  of  mankind.  As  we 
are  not  philosophers,  could  it  be  otherwise  ?' 

" '  Impossible !'  said  he,  rocking  gently  to  and  fro. 
'  Proceed,  enchantress !' 

"  '  Well,  you  being  included  among  the  rest  of  man 
kind—' 

"  '  You  have  occasionally  honored  me  ?  And  what  did 
you  say  about  me  ?' 

"  '  With  one  accord,  that  you  were  in  love !' 

"  '  You  have  already  entrapped  me  into  a  confession 
on  that  point.  Chaunt,  Circe !' 

" '  But  the  accord  ends  there ;  we  are  not  unanimous 
as  to  the  charmer's  name.' 

"  'Not  unanimous?     I  don't  understand.' 

" '  Well,  we  female  doctors  are  agreed  as  to  the  dis 
ease,  but  differ  as  to  its  cause.  The  majority  of  the 
Faculty  at  Elmington  assign,  as  the  source  of  your 
trouble,  Mary's  soulful  eyes ;  but  one  or  two,  even  of 
us,  and  most  of  the  neighboring  physicians,  urge  an 
other  name  ;  while  one  or  two,  with  the  frankness  so 
common  among  doctors,  admit  that  they  do  not  know 
what  is  the  matter  with  you. 

"  '  You  surprise  me !  I  had  gathered  from  what  you 
said  but  a  moment  ago,  that  the  symptoms  in  my  case 
were  so  pronounced  as  not  even  to  require  a  formal 
diagnosis.' 

" '  But  doctors  will  differ,  and  when  they  do — ' 


328  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

" '  The  patient  must  decide.  Well,  I  have  done  so. 
But — to  drop  your  metaphor — I  cannot  conceive  what 
you  mean  by  suggesting  that  I  have  the  credit  of 
adoring  two  or  more  young  persons  ?' 

"You  may  recall,  Jack,  that  the  Silent  Tomb  was 
equally  perplexed  on  the  same  point,  and  that  when  I 
asked  him  'Mary  or  Lucy?'  he  amazed  our  whole  cir 
cle  by  bursting  into  a  laugh.  Then  the  wretch,  in  re 
peating  the  names  after  me,  so  carefully  abstained  from 
placing  the  accent  of  astonishment  on  either,  that  not 
even  a  professional  piano-tuner  could  have  detected  any 
difference  in  the  sounds — oh,  the  artesian  well !  I  re 
membered  this.  The  Don  had  expressed  no  surprise 
when  I  named  Mary  Eolfe ;  probably,  then,  it  was  the 
mention  of  Lucy  that  had  amazed  the  S.  T.  It  flashed 
across  my  female  mind,  in  the  tenth  part  of  a  second, 
how  singularly  Mr.  Frobisher  had  acted,  after  the  first 
flush  of  astonishment  was  over, — how  he  pursed  up  his 
brow,  gazed  far  away,  in  fact,  mooned  around  in  the 
most  absurd  fashion,  instead  of  telling  me  all  about  it 
at  once.  Would  the  Don,  too,  laugh,  when  I  mentioned 
Lucy's  name  ? 

" '  We  do  you  that  honor,  at  any  rate,'  said  I. 

" '  We  ?  Who  are  we  ?  Which  of  you  belong  to  the 
Rolfe  faction,  and  which  to — you  have  not  mentioned 
the  name  of  the  other  dear  charmer?' 

" '  Well,  so  and  so  are  for  Mary,  and  so  and  so  for  the 
other.' 

" '  Her  name  ?  But  one  moment, — Miss  Eolfe  herself 
— you  failed  to  place  her.  Would  it  be  a  breach  of 
confidence  to  do  so  ?' 

"  '  She  has  not  taken  me  into  her  confidence ;  therefore 
I  have  the  right  to  make  what  surmises  I  choose.  I  place 
her  between  the  two.  She  does  not  know  what  to  think.' 

"  Again  he  snapped  his  head  backwards,  as  though 
he  said  that  he  would  settle  that  shortly.  Tranquil 
lized,  he  relit  his  cigar,  which  had  gone  out,  and  again 
lolled  back ;  and  cocking  up  his  cigar  in  the  corner  of 
his  mouth,  asked.  '  And  the  other  ?' 

" '  Guess,'  said  I. 

"  Dropping  his  chin  on  his  breast,  with  a  quiet  smile, 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  329 

he  pretended  to  reflect  for  a  moment.  ' I  am  afraid  I 
shall  have  to  give  it  up.  Oh,  how  dull  I  have  been ! 
How  intolerably  stupid  !'  And  placing  his  hand  on  his 
heart,  he  made  me  a  low  bow ;  then  throwing  back  his 
head,  with  a  merry  laugh,  '  Capital,  capital !'  he  ejacu 
lated. 

" '  No,'  said  I,  '  her  name  is  not  Alice.     Guess  again. 

"A  flash  of  surprise  followed  by  a  look  of  rising 
curiosity.  '  Eeally,  you  perplex  me !' 

" '  You  cannot  recall  any  of  the  girls  except  Mary,  in 
whom  you  have  shown  marked  interest?' — he  shook 
his  head — '  an  ever  increasing  interest  ?'  '  An  ever  in 
creasing  interest  ?'  repeated  he,  opening  his  eyes  wide 
upon  me ;  then,  looking  upon  the  ground,  he  appeared 
to  reflect.  '  Not  Miss  Kitty  ?  No  ?  Nor  Miss  Jennie  ? 
Not  Miss  Jennie  either !  Upon  my  word  1  But  you 
seem  serious ;  are  you  really  ?' 

"  '  I  am.  You  cannot  think  of  any  girl  whom  you 
have  visited  again  and  again,  of  late?' 

"  '  Visited  /'  exclaimed  he.  '  Why,  then  she  is  not  one 
of  our  Elmington  guests !' 

"  I  fixed  my  eyes  upon  him,  and  saw  nothing,  though 
I  had  always  thought  him  as  transparent  as  glass.  It 
was  my  turn  now  to  be  bewildered.  '  What !'  I  ex 
claimed,  'can't  you  guess,  now,  to  whom  I  allude?' 

"  Gazing  at  me  with  the  look  of  one  who  had  totally 
lost  his  reckoning,  he  shook  his  head  slowly  from  side 
to  side.  I  was  positively  vexed.  There  came  over  me 
the  impatient  feeling  of  a  teacher  who  is  striving  in 
vain  to  hammer  an  idea  into  the  head  of  a  numskull. 
'  Well,  then,'  said  I,  with  some  heat ;  and  throwing  out 
my  arm  at  full  length,  I  pointed  across  the  Eiver. 

" '  Across  the  Eiver,  too,'  said  he,  with  contracted 
features.  '  Upon  my  word,  this  conundrum  grows  in 
teresting.'  And  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  sand,  he 
stroked  his  tawny  beard.  '  Across  the  Eiver — let  me 
see — Miss  Jenny  Eoyal — dinner-call — no  other  visit. 
The  Misses  Surrey — party -call.  Miss  Adelaide  Temple 
— breakfast — going  to  pay  my  respects  to-morrow, 
Anywhere  else?  No.  Well,'  said  he,  suddenly  throw 
ing  up  his  hands,  '  I  give  it  up !  What  is  the  answer  ?' 

23* 


330  THE  STORY   OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  I  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  but  could  make 
nothing  of  him.  '  There !  There !  There !'  I  exclaimed, 
at  last,  stabbing  at  Oakhurst  with  my  forefinger. 

"  '  Where  ?'  asked  he,  looking  across  the  River  and  up 
and  down  the  shore  opposite. 

"  '  There !     There !' 

" '  You  seem  to  be  pointing  to  Oakhurst.' 

"  My  arm  dropped  across  the  gunwale. 

" '  Oakhurst !'  exclaimed  he,  with  a  most  natural 
look  of  surprise.  '  You  don't  mean  Oakhurst  ?  Why, 
there  are  no  guests  there  1  There  is  no  one  but  Lucy 
— Miss  Lucy !' 

" '  That's  true,'  answered  I,  dryly.  '  No  one  but 
Lucy.' 

"  He  leaned  forward  and  scanned  my  features  with  a 
mixture  of  amusement  and  curiosity.  'Surely  you 
have  not  been  alluding  to  her  T  I  said  nothing.  '  Se 
riously?  Yes?'  And  with  a  shout  of  merry  laughter, 
he  threw  back  his  head  with  such  vigor  that  his  cigar 
flew  out  of  his  mouth  and  over  his  shoulder  upon  the 
sand ;  and  then,  without  the  least  warning,  his  laugh 
ter  ended  in  an  abrupt  '  Oh  !' 

"  He  rose  to  his  feet ;  not  with  a  spring,  but  slowly, 
slowly,  thoughtfully  tugging  at  his  moustache,  and  his 
eyes  intently  glaring  into  vacancy,  as  he  rose  and  rose, 
till  he  seemed  to  my  excited  imagination  to  assume 
almost  colossal  proportions.  Then  he  slowly  subsided 
again  into  his  seat,  and  sat  there  raking  his  beard  with 
his  long  fingers.  A  chilly  sensation  crept  over  me.  I 
tried  to  speak,  but  could  think  of  no  word  wherewith 
to  break  the  spell  of  silence.  At  last  he  turned  his 
eyes  upon  mine. 

" '  So  it  seems  to  you  that  I  have  been  paying  Lucy 
Poythress  much  attention  ?' 

"'Seems,  Mr.  Don?  How  can  you  use  that  word? 
It  is  a  patent  fact  that  must  be  as  clear  to  your  eyes  as 
to  mine.' 

" '  Yes,  but  what  kind  .of  attention  ?  She  is  musical 
— so  am  I.  I  have  rowed  across  the  River  frequently, 
to  play  with  her.  Nay,  my  object  has  not  been  pleas 
ure  alone.  I  have  been  giving  her  what  are  called,  in 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  331 

Paris,  accompaniment-lessons.  Does  that  amount  to 
what  is  called  attention,  in  a  technical  sense?  And 
you  acknowledge  yourself  that  these  visits  never  de 
ceived  you.  You  never  thought  that  they  were  prompted 
by  love.' 

" '  No,  they  did  not  deceive  me.  "What  if  they  have 
deceived — ' 

"'HER!' 

"  The  word  shot  from  his  lips  like  a  ball  from  a 
cannon.  He  sprang  from  the  boat  and  began  to  stride 
to  and  fro  in  the  sand,  his  nostrils  dilated  and  his  eyes 
fixed.  (He  used  a  dreadful  expression,  too,  which  was 
not  at  all  patriotic,  though  it  did  end  in  — nation.) 
Presently  he  turned  quickly  towards  me,  and  leaning 
forward,  with  his  hands  grasping  the  gunwale  of  the 
boat,  eagerly  asked,  '  But,  Lucy,  surely  you  do  not 
think  that — that  she — is — what  you  call  interested  ?' 

" '  She  has  not  betrayed  any  symptoms  of  that  char 
acter.' 

"  '  Thank  you,'  said  he,  seizing  my  hand  with  a  grip 
that  made  me  wince ;  and  he  began  to  stride  to  and  fro 
again,  till  I  stopped  him. 

" '  But,  Mr.  Don,'  said  I,  '  though  she  may  not  be 
interested  now,  it  does  not  follow  that  she  may  not 
become — ' 

" '  Never  fear,'  said  he,  biting  his  lip  with  a  look  of 
fierce  determination,  and  striding  up  and  down  again. 

"  Thinking  to  soothe  him :  '  Be  careful !  Remem 
ber,  we  girls  think  you  a  handsome,  fascinating  dog ; 
so  don't  raise  false  hopes.' 

"'No  danger,  no  danger!'  replied  he,  earnestly,  and 
without  even  a  smile  for  my  compliment.  '  "What  a 
fool  I  have  been  !' 

"  He  stood  reflectively  stroking  his  moustache  for  a 
while,  and  I  thought  the  scene  over,  when  turning  im 
petuously  upon  me,  and  seizing  me  by  both  wrists  with 
a  grasp  of  steel,  '  You  don't  think  so  ?'  he  cried.  '  Tell 
me  you  do  not,  for  heaven's  sake !' 

"  He  seemed  totally  unconscious  of  the  force  he  was 
using,  for  he  jerked  me  against  the  gunwale  with  such 
violence  that  I  should  have  been  hurt  had  I  not  been 


332  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

so  frightened.  Oh,  what  eyes  he. had  !  I  can  feel  their 
glare  now,  as  I  remember  how  he  held  me  as  in  a  vise, 
and,  bringing  his  face  close  to  mine,  looked  me  through 
and  through. 

" '  Tell  you  what  ?'  I  gasped. 

"'Lucy — she — the  poor  child — she  has  not — fallen  in 
love  with  me:  you  knowl  Tell  me  so,  for  God's  sake!' 

"  His  fingers  sank  into  my  wrists,  and  his  fearful  eyes 
burned  into  my  brain. 

"  '  No !     I  am  sure  she  has  not !' 

"  '  Thanks,  thanks,  thanks!'  he  cried;  and  lifting  both 
my  hands  to  his  lips,  he  covered  them  with  fervid 
kisses.  I  was  not  surprised ;  I  was  past  that  point. 
Had  he  thrown  his  arms  around  me,  I  honestly  believe 
I  should  have  been  neither  astonished  nor  angry." 

"  I  wish  he  had,"  said  Charley,  musing.  "  Poor  boy, 
poor  boy! — well,  well!"  and,  sighing,  he  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  the  fire. 

Alice,  with  a  look  of  tender  sympathy,  took  her  hus 
band's  hand  in  hers. 


CHAPTEK  L. 

THE  return  of  our  Jason  and  Medea  from  the  Argo 
was  very  different  from  their  departure  for  that  fateful 
craft.  If  their  going  had  been  operatic,  their  coming 
was  elegiac.  A  salvo  of  salutations  was  preparing  as 
they  approached,  and  the  Gallery  watched  the  couple 
as  they  drew  near,  momentarily  expecting  some  out 
burst  of  jollity  on  their  part ;  but  expectancy  slowly 
faded  as  their  nearer  and  nearer  approach  brought 
into  ever  clearer  view  the  faces  of  the  Argonaut  and 
the  Enchantress. 

I  have  called  the  Don  a  man  of  surprises.  What 
had  he  been  saying  to  Alice?  thought  every  one  as  she 
tripped  up  the  piazza  steps  with  an  effort  to  appear 
jaunty  and  careless ;  but  her  cheeks  showed  splotches 
of  burning  red,  while  his  features  were  pale  and  set. 
What  had  happened  ? 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  333 

1  cannot  say  what  others  thought,  but  I  happen  to 
have  learned  since  what  flashed  across  Mary's  mind. 
The  Don  had  proposed  to  Alice  and  Alice  had  rejected 
him,  had  declined  his  first  proposal  merely,  for  of 
course  she  could  not  have  meant  to  reject  him  for 
good  and  all.  What  passed  her  comprehension  was 
how  Alice  had  had  the  hardihood  to  propose  a  walk 
which  she  must  have  known  was  to  have  that  result. 
She  was  amazed  to  think  how  blind  she  had  been  all 
along.  How  could  she  have  failed  to  remark  what 
was  patent  to  all,  that  the  Don  hung  upon  every  word 
that  fell  from  Alice's  lips  ? 

I  happen  to  know,  too,  what  Charley  thought :  "  She 
tackled  him!  What  a  girl!  what  a  girl!  Bless  her 
little  heart !" 

"  Well,  Alice,"  said  my  grandfather,  "you  know  the 
rule."  Alice  looked  up.  "  Whenever  any  of  my  girls 
have  had  a  trip  on  the  Argo — " 

"  Oh,"  said  Alice,  "  we  kiss  you  on  our  return."  And 
she  suited  action  to  word. 

"I  accept  the  amendment,  but  that  ia  not  what  I 
meant.  Give  an  account  of  yourself.  What  luck  ?" 

Alice's  face  grew  serene  under  the  old-time  courtesy 
of  my  grandfather's  manner,  and  she  was  herself 
again. 

"'You  will  have  to  excuse  me,  Uncle  Tom.  A  girl 
who  has  been  properly  brought  up  cannot  fail  to  feel 
that  there  are  occasions  when  her  mother  is  her  only 
proper  confidant." 

Even  the  Don  laughed  at  this,  and  the  hard  lines 
passed  out  of  his  face.  He  looked  at  Alice  with  an  ex 
pression  of  admiring  amusement,  seeing  how  easily  she 
had  laughed  away  the  awkward  pause  that  their  return 
had  caused. 

When  Mary,  poor  tempest-tossed  soul,  saw  that  ad 
miring  glance,  she  stamped  her  foot,  though  inaudibly, 
— stamped  it  with  vexation,  and  inwardly  begged 
Alice's  pardon ;  for  it  was  not  the  glance  of  a  lover, 
rejected  or  other. 

"  There  they  come  down  the  lawn,"  suddenly  cried 
my  grandfather.  "  Charley,  where  is  the  glass  ?  Thank 


334  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

you.  They  are  getting  into  the  boat, — Mrs.  Poythresa 
is  in, — now  for  Lucy, — she  is  in, — and  now  Mr.  P. 
there!  The  first  flash  of  the  oars!  They  are  off! 
Charley,"  added  he,  handing  the  glass  to  Mrs.  Carter, 
"  did  you  think  to  send  word  to  the  Herr  to  come,  as 
the  Poythresses  were  to  spend  the  day  with  us?  Ah, 
I  remember,  he  could  not  come.  Well,  Lucy  and  Mr. 
Smith  will  have  to  entertain  us  to-day." 

u  Ah,"  sighed  Mary,  "  in  that  boat  sits  my  real  rival. 
How  could  I  have  thought  such  a  thing  of  dear  Alice?" 

When  the  boat  neared  the  shore,  the  gentlemen  (there 
were  only  three  at  Elmington  at  this  time, — my  grand 
father,  Charley,  and  the  Don)  went  to  meet  the  guests. 
Mrs.  Carter  went  also,  to  greet  Mrs.  Poythress;  and 
Alice,  too ;  saying,  when  she  saw  her  mother  leaning 
on  Mr.  Whacker's  arm,  that  she  thought  it  prudent  to 
look  after  her  father's  interests,  when  her  mother 
was  carrying  on  so  in  his  absence.  I  am  afraid,  how 
ever,  that  she  did  not  keep  a  very  strict  watch  on  her 
mother;  for  she  and  Charley  were  soon  considerably  in 
the  rear  of  the  rest,  and  engaged,  as  was  obvious  to 
Mary  (who  remained  on  the  piazza),  in  a  very  earnest 
conversation,  the  subject  of  which  it  hardly  needed  a 
woman's  instinct  to  divine.  She  felt  sure  that  her 
friend  was  describing  to  Charley  her  interview  with 
the  Don ;  and  as  Alice  grew  more  and  more  earnest  in 
her  manner  and  vehement  in  her  gestures,  her  curiosity 
rose  at  last  into  a  sickening  intensity,  for  a  voice  whis 
pered  in  her  ear  that  she,  somehow,  was  deeply  con 
cerned  in  what  those  two  were  saying.  She  forgot 
where  she  was,  forgot  the  girls  seated  near  her,  saw 
only  Charley  and  Alice ;  and  leaning  farther  and  farther 
forward,  as  they  receded,  strove  to  drink  in  with  her 
soulful  eyes  the  words  that  her  ears  could  not  hear. 

"  Gracious,  Mary,  what  is  the  matter?" 

She  had  seen  Alice  stop  and  turn  towards  Charley 
and  gaze  at  him  with  an  almost  tragic  earnestness. 
Then,  suddenly  springing  towards  him  and  seizing  his 
wrist,  she  had  given  him  a  pull  that  shook  his  equilib 
rium.  With  nerves  unstrung  by  the  harassing  doubts 
of  the  last  few  weeks,  and  wrought  up  to  the  highest 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  335 

pitch  of  painful  curiosity  as  to  the  subject-matter  of 
the  singular  interview  between  Alice  and  the  Don  in 
the  Argo  that  morning, — seeing  Alice  detailing  that 
interview  to  Charley, — when  she  witnessed  Alice's  vio 
lent  illustration  of  what  must  have  occurred  between 
her  and  the  Don,  Mary  had  leaped,  with  a  cry,  from  her 
seat. 

11  Gracious,  Mary,  what  is  the  matter?" 

At  these  words  of  her  neighbor  Mary  sank  back  in 
her  chair  with  a  vivid  blush  and  a  confused  smile,  and 
was  silent. 

"You  frightened  me  so!  I  thought  some  one  had 
fallen  out  of  the  boat,  perhaps.  What  was  the  matter?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  can't  tell ;  I  suppose  I  must  have  been 
dreaming." 

The  neighbor  cast  her  eyes  towards  the  boat,  and 
seeing  among  the  approaching  guests  Lucy  leaning  on 
the  Don's  arm,  thought  her  own  thoughts. 

The  day  was  an  unusually  warm  one  for  February, 
and,  a  vote  being  taken,  it  was  decided  not  to  enter  the 
house;  and  our  friends  soon  grouped  themselves  to 
their  liking  on  the  sunny  piazza. ;  the  elders  at  one  end, 
in  the  middle  the  young  people,  except  Charley  and 
Alice,  who  sat  by  themselves  at  the  other  end  of  the 
porch. 

These  twain  often  found  themselves  isolated  now. 
Wherever  they  chose  their  seats  every  one  seemed  to 
think  they  needed  room,  and  moved  off, — treatment 
that  Charley  bore  like  the  philosopher  that  he  was. 
The  fact  is  that,  from  being  a  man  who  seemed  to  have 
nothing  to  say,  he  became,  about  this  time,  one  who 
could  not  find  time  to  say  all  that  he  had  on  his  mind. 
At  this  period  of  his  life  he  used  to  lie  awake  in  bed, 
for  hours  and  hours,  as  he  has  since  confessed  to  me 
[And  to  me.  A.~\  [Wh-e-e-e-w !  C.  F.~\,  running  over 
in  his  mind  the  things  that  he  had  omitted  to  say  to 
Alice  the  evening  before,  and  resolving  to  say  them 
all  immediately  after  breakfast  next  morning.  On  this 
occasion  a  mountain  torrent  of  words  had  risen  in  his 
soul  during  the  hour's  absence  of  his  charmer  in  the 
Argo.  But  he  was  not  uttering  them.  Nor  did  it 


336  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

matter  in  the  least,  as  they  would  have  been  as  like 
thousands  of  others  that  he  had  been  whispering  and 
whispering  into  her  rosy  ear,  as  one  drop  of  water  of 
the  supposed  torrent  was  like  another.  The  twain 
were  rather  silent,  in  fact.  They  were  quietly  watch 
ing  the  Don  and  Lucy. 

One  other  pair  of  eyes  took  in  every  movement  of 
the  Don,  another  pair  of  ears  lost  never  a  word  nor  an 
inflection  of  his  voice.  (Mary  was,  it  is  true,  engaged 
in  an  animated  discussion  with  Mr.  Poythress  on  the 
subject  of  Byron, — he  denouncing  the  man,  while  she 
lauded  the  poet, — but  then  she  was  a  woman.)  "  How 
changed  he  is!"  sighed  she.  "A  moment  ago,  pale  as 
ashes ;  how  bright  and  cheerful  now  I  And  Lucy !  I 
think  I  should  try  not  to  look  quite  so  happy,  if  I  were 
you !  Why  not  announce  your  engagement  in  words, 
as  you  are  doing  every  moment  by  your  manner?" 

Alice,  on  the  contrary,  to  Charley :  "  How  well  he  is 
acting  his  part!  He  knows  we  are  looking  at  him,  and 
see  the  easy  air  of  an  old  friend  that  he  has  assumed 
towards  Lucy!  Not  assumed,  either,  for  his  bearing 
towards  her  has  always  been  just  that." 

"  So  I  have  always  thought,"  said  Charley. 

"Certainly;  only  that  manner  is  rather  more  pro 
nounced  than  usual.  The  merest  glance  would  con 
vince  any  one  that  he  was  no  lover  of  Lucy's." 

" '  He  that  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead, 
Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled, — 
The  first  dark  day,' "  etc.,  etc., 

quoted  Mary. 

No  voice  that  I  have  ever  heard  quite  equalled  Mary's 
in  sweetness,  even  in  familiar  talk.  Soft  and  tender,  it 
was  yet  singularly  clear,  though  marked  by  a  certain 
patrician  absence  of  that  exaggerated  articulation  so 
characteristic  of  other  communities,  where  not  the 
norma  loquendi  of  gentle  ancestors  is  the  touchstone  of 
speech,  but  the  printed  word,  and  the  spelling-book, 
and  the  unlovely  precision  of  the  free  school.  But  now 
that  she  was  uttering  a  wail  over  her  own  crushed 
heart,  and,  in  unison  therewith,  Byron's  passionate 


THE  STORY   OF  DON  MIFF.  337 

lament  over  the  dead  glories  of  the  Greece  of  Ther 
mopylae  and  of  Marathon,  the  tremulous  fervor  of  her 
vibrating  tones  was  touching  beyond  description.  Two 
or  three  fair  heads  had  clustered  near  hers  to  catch  her 
low-breathed  words ;  and  when,  turning  to  Mr.  Poy- 
thress  with  a  certain  triumphant  enthusiasm  in  her 
soulful  eyes,  she,  with  a  slight  but  impassioned  gesture, 
ended  with  the  words,  "  'Tis  Greece,  but  living  Greece 
no  more,"  there  was  a  sense  of  choking  in  more  than 
one  snowy  throat. 

As  for  Mrs.  Carter, — sympathetic  soul, — I  am  told 
that  there  were  actually  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Upon  my  word,"  began  Mr.  Poythress,  ready  to 
yield. 

Perhaps  Mary  heard  what  he  said  as  he  re-defined 
his  position ;  but  his  words  can  be  of  no  interest  to  the 
reader. 

"  See,"  mused  she,  "  what  an  easy  air  he  has  assumed 
towards  Lucy!  And  Lucy!  how  matter-of-fact! 
Any  one  could  see  at  half  a  glance  that  they  were 
acknowledged  lovers.  See  with  what  an  air  of  con 
tent  he  looks  about  him !  There,  he  is  exchanging 
glances  with  Alice;  and  she  understands  him,  of 
course.  She  is  telling  Mr.  Frobisher  that  they  are  en 
gaged.  Ah,  he  glanced  at  me,  then,  and  so  furtively ! 
No  wonder  he  averts  his  eyes  when  they  meet  mine ! 
Yet  even  yesterday  I  thought  I  saw  in  his  look — well, 
well ;  that  is  all  over." 

Alice,  on  the  contrary:  "See,  he  can't  keep  his  eyes 
off  her!  He  is  just  dying  to  say  something  to  her; 
and  it  will  be  to  the  point.  Ah,  Uncle  Tom  has  put 
himself  just  between  us."  And  she  leaned  forward  so 
as  to  put  Charley  almost  behind  her  back,  but  went  on 
talking,  all  the  same,  in  a  low  voice:  "How  could 
those  girls  have  thought  that  he  was  in  love  with  Lucy 
or  Lucy  in  love  with  him !" 

"  Horrible  !"  ejaculated  Charley,  in  a  voice  that  star 
tled  Alice.  She  turned  and  looked  at  him.  Had  she 
turned  more  quickly,  she  might  have  caught  a  differ 
ent  expression  on  his  face.  As  it  was,  he  was  gazing 
out  upon  the  Kiver  with  a  stony  calm  upon  his  features. 
f  w  29 


338  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?"  asked  she,  beginning  to  doubt 
her  ears.  "'Horrible?'" 

"Who?  I?"  And  the  gray  eyes  met  the  hazel 
without  blinking. 

"  Did  you  not  say  that  the  idea  of  the  Don  and  Lucy 
being  lovers  was  horrible  ?" 

"  Very  likely.  Of  late  I  have  been  capable  of  saying 
anything." 

"  What  did  you  mean  ?" 

"  If  I  said  it, — which  I  don't  admit ;  and  if  I  meant 
anything, — which,  likely  enough,  I  did  not — " 

" '  Horrible'  is  so  unlike  you." 

"  Now  you  flatter  me." 

"  Tell  me,  goose.". 

"  You  say  that  the  Don  loves  Mary.  Then  wouldn't 
it  be  sad  if  Lucy  loved  him  ?  And  you  tell  me  that 
Mary  loves  the  Don.  Now  wouldn't  it  be  too  bad  if 
the  Don  loved  Lucy  ?  Ought  not  true  love  to  run 
smooth  if  it  can  ?" 

Alice  fixed  her  eyes  upon  Charley's,  and  scanned  his 
features  long  and  intently.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
seen  there  save  a  smile  that  was  almost  infantile  in  its 
sweetness  and  simplicity.  "Do  you  think  I  am  hand 
some  ?"  asked  he,  languidly.  "  They  tell  me  I  am  good." 

"Do  you  know,  Mr.  Frobisher,  I  sometimes  think 
you  know  more  about  the —  There  she  goes,  and  he 
after  her!" 

"  Mr.  Poythress,"  Mary  had  said,  laughing,  "  my 
defence  of  Byron  has  made  my  throat  dry." 

"  Nor  did  it  lack  much  of  making  our  eyes  moist," 
replied  he,  with  a  courtly  inclination  of  his  patrician 
head. 

"  Let  me  ^et  you  a  glass  of  water,"  interrupted  the 
Don,  moving  towards  the  door. 

"Ah,  thank  you,  never  mind."  And  rising  hastily, 
she  made  for  the  door  with  a  precipitancy  that  vexed 
Alice ;  for  she  saw  in  it  a  pointed  indication  of  un 
willingness  on  Mary's  part  to  accept  even  this  little 
service  at  the  hands  of  the  Don.  She  moved  so  rapidly 
that  she  had  passed  in  at  the  door  before  the  Don  could 
reach  it;  but  he,  whether  or  not  he  interpreted  her 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  339 

motives  as  Alice  did,  followed  her  within  the  house. 
Instantly  the  cloud  that  had  passed  over  Alice's  face 
was  gone,  and  a  sudden  smile  shone  forth.  She  sprang 
to  her  feet.  "  Why  do  we  tarry  here  all  the  day  ?  It 
is  moved  and  seconded  that  we  adjourn  to  the  Hall. 
Fall  in,  company  !  Attention  I  Shoulder — I  mean 
seize  arms!"  And  skipping  away  from  Charley,  she 
laid  hands  upon  Mr.  Poythress  ("  You  take  Mrs.  Poy- 
thress,"  she  had  whispered  to  Charley;  "that  will 
make  them  all  come"),  and  away  they  marched  down 
the  steps  and  across  the  lawn,  towards  the  Hall,  Alice 
leading  with  her  rataplan,  rataplan,  and  enacting  a 
sort  of  combination  of  captain,  drum-major,  and  vivan- 
diere. 

Nothing  so  much  delighted  our  slaves,  in  those  days, 
as  any  jollity  on  the  part  of  their  masters.  Happy 
and  careless  themselves,  when  they  saw  their  betters 
unbend  they  realized  more  clearly,  perhaps,  that  they 
were  men  and  brothers. 

"Lord  'a'  mussy!"  cried  Aunt  Polly  at  the  kitchen 
door,  letting  fall  a  dish-cloth. 

"What  dat,  gal?"  carelessly  asked  Uncle  Dick,  who 
sat  breakfasting  in  his  usual  stately  and  leisurely  fash 
ion.  Aunt  Polly  made  no  reply,  being  seized  with  a 
sudden  paroxysm  which  caused  her  to  collapse  into 
half  her  normal  stature.  Straightening  herself  out 
again,  and  wiping  her  eyes  with  her  apron,  "Oh, 
Lord,  how  long!"  she  ejaculated,  giving  the  door-sill 
two  simultaneous  flaps  with  slippers  that  were  a  world 
too  wide.  "What's  a-comin'  next?  dat's  all  I  wants  to 
know."  And  she  began  to  rock  to  and  fro.  Seeing  her 
for  the  second  time  telescope  into  a  three-foot  cook  : 

"  What  de  matter  wid  de  gal  ?"  said  Uncle  Dick,  rising 
with  dignity,  and  wiping  his  rather  unctuous  lips. 

"'Fore  Gaud,"  cried  his  spouse,  "I  do  b'lieve  dat  chile 
gwine  to  make  everybody  at  Elmin'ton  crazy  befo'  she 
done.  Mussiful  heaven,  jess  look  at  olc  mahrster,  and 
he  a-steppin'  high  as  a  colt,  and  Miss  Alice  a-struttin' 
jess  like  she  had  on  a  ridgimental  unicorn,  and  a-back- 
m'  and  a-linin'  of  'em  up  wid  her  parasol!  Forrard, 
march!  Jess  lisscn  at  her  sojer  talk,  and  ain't  she  a 


340  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

pretty  little  critter?  No  wonder  Marse  Charley  ravin' 
'stracted  'bout  her.  Lor',  Dick,  let  de  boy  look!" 

Zip,  by  a  dextrous  ducking  of  his  head,  had  just 
evaded  the  sweeping  palm  of  his  chief.  "What  is  deso 
young  niggers  a-comin'  to?"  exclaimed  this  virtuous 
personage.  "Boy,  don't  you  see  dem  flies."  And  he 
pointed  to  the  table  he  had  just  left.  "And  you  a- 
gapin'  at  de  white  folks,  'stid  o'  mindin'  your  business!" 

One  of  the  perquisites  of  Zip's  position  as  junior 
butler  was  waving  a  feather  brush  over  the  bald  head 
of  his  senior  when  he  sat  at  meat.  Dick  had  elected 
him  to  this  office  on  the  plea  of  fotchin'  of  him  up  in 
the  way  he  should  go;  and,  being  a  strict  disciplinarian, 
had  resented  his  abandoning  the  post  of  duty  without 
orders. 

Zip  made  a  perfunctory  dash,  with  his  brush,  at  the 
flies, — whom,  by  the  way,  he  somewhat  resembled  in 
disposition;  for  as  you  shall  not  ruffle  the  temper,  or 
even  hurt  the  feelings  of  one  of  these,  during  your 
afternoon  nap,  by  a  slap,  be  it  ever  so  violent  and  con 
tumelious,  if  it  but  miss  him ;  so  Zip-Moses  accounted 
all  blows  that  failed  to  reach  that  anvil-shaped  head  of 
his  not  as  insults  and  injuries,  but  clear  gain  rather. 
Zip,  therefore,  was  not  long  in  finding  his  way  back,  on 
tiptoe,  to  where  he  could  get  a  glimpse  of  what  was 
going  forward  on  the  lawn ;  even  as  that  reckless  in 
sect  blanches  not  as  he  tickles  the  somnolent  nose  of  a 
blacksmith  ;  for  hath  he  not  his  weather  eye  upon  the 
doughty  fist  of  his  foe  ? 

"Left  face!"  cried  Alice;  "forward,  file  right, 
march !"  And  her  company  went  tumbling  with  bursts 
of  laughter  up  the  steps  and  into  the  Hall. 

Lucy  took  her  seat  at  the  piano. 

"  Why,  where  is  the  Don  ?"  asked  my  grandfather, 
looking  round. 

"Lucy  has  a  new  solo  for  us,"  said  Alice, — "per 
haps, — "  added  she,  conscience-stricken. 

"Oho!"  cried  Mr.  Whacker,  settling  himself. 

"  What  new  solo  ?"  asked  Lucy. 

"  That — what  do  you  call  it  ?"  replied  Alice,  rather 
vaguely. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  341 

"  The  Sonata  I  have  been  learning  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  that's  what  we  want." 

Lucy  struck  the  opening  chords  and  began. 

Charley  leaned  carelessly  forward  and  whispered  in 
Alice's  ear, — 

"  This  is  a  solo ;  that  ?"  And  he  nodded  slightly  in 
the  direction  of  the  house. 

"  A  duet.     What  did  you  think  of  my  manoeuvre  ?" 

"  Immense !" 


NOTICE   TO   THE  PUBLIC. 

BEING  AN   INTRODUCTION   TO   CHAPTER  LI. 

How  and  by  how  many  cooks  this  broth  has  been 
brewed,  our  patrons  have  already  been  duly  informed. 
Up  to  this  point  the  firm,  as  a  firm,  has  been  respon 
sible  for  everything  that  has  been  -written  ;  for  though 
our  Mr.  Whacker,  having  the  pen  of  a  ready  writer, 
has  had  the  task  of  arranging  our  wares  in  show-cases, 
our  silent  partners  have  furnished  the  bulk  of  said 
wares.  And  we  desire  to  say  to  the  public  that  our 
joint  labors  have  been,  thus  far,  carried  forward  most 
joyously,  and  with  perfect  harmony. 

Save  only  in  one  particular. 

Our  female  associate  has  been  grumbling,  from  the 
very  first,  at  the  treatment  that  Love  has  received  at 
the  hands  of  our  Mr.  Whacker.  She  has  again  and 
again  protested  against  what  she  calls  the  mocking 
touches  of  his  pencil,  when  he  would  portray  that  pas 
sion  which  is  so  tender,  and  yet  hath  power  to  move 
the  world.  He,  on  his  side,  has  defended  his  handi 
work,  if  not  with  success,  at  least  with  a  certain  manly 
vigor,  having  observed  more  than  once  that  he  could 
not  for  the  life  of  him  get  it  into  his  head  how  it  could 
be  High  Art  to  make  your  heroes  say  in  a  book  what  a 
Christian  would  be  hanged  before  he  would  say,  or  be 
overheard  saying,  at  least,  in  real  life  j  adding,  with  a 


342  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

tartness  born  of  his  wrangles  at  the  Bar,  that  it  passed 
his  comprehension  why  authors  should  be  at  the  pains 
of  causing  imaginary  beings  to  make  fools  of  them 
selves,  when  nature  had  served  so  many  real  ones  that 
turn.  In  reply,  our  Alice  said  that,  if  that  were  so, 
they  were  but  holding  the  mirror  up  to  nature ;  a  re 
tort  that  seemed  to  dispose  of  our  legal  brother;  and  so 
our  Alice  was  encouraged  to  go  on  and  add  (using  the 
bluntness  of  a  friend)  that  all  this  talk  about  love- 
making  being  an  exhibition  of  an  aggravated  type  of 
idiocy  'was,  to  use  the  mildest  name,  the  merest  affec 
tation,  and  could  have  originated  only  in  the  brain  of  a 
sore-headed  old  bachelor,  who  is  forever  talking  of 
marrying,  but  who  has  not  the  vaguest  conception  of 
what  love  really  means.  Our  Charley,  meanwhile, 
would  only  smoke  and  chuckle  and  chuckle  and  smoke, 
when  we  asked  for  his  vote  to  end  our  controversy ; 
and  as  his  smoke-wreaths  were  perfectly  symmetrical, 
inclining  neither  this  way  nor  that,  and  as  he  chuckled 
on  both  sides  of  him,  neither  of  us  belligerents  had  the 
least  pretext  for  claiming  the  victory.  Yet,  in  the  end, 
it  was  he  who  closed  our  debate. 

"  Jack- Whack,"  said  he  (ever  judicious),  "turn  about 
is  fair  play.  Suppose  we  let  Alice  write  this  fifty-first 
chapter.  Let  it  be  hers  entirely,  and  let  her  acknowl 
edge  it  as  such,  while  you  may  disown  it." 

To  this  we  are  all  agreed.  In  testimony  whereof 
we  have  hereunto,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

CHARLES  FROBISHER.  [Seal.] 

ALICE  DITTO.  [Seal.] 

JOHN  BOUCHE  WHACKER.     [Seal.*] 

[*Porpoise.    Ha  !  ha  !  ha  /] 

When  Charley  came  out  with  his  Compromise  Reso 
lutions,  Alice  was  at  first  much  taken  aback,  turning 
red  and  white  by  turns;  nor  do  I  believe  she  would 
ever  have  consented,  had  I  not  permitted  myself  to 
smile  a  rather  triumphant  smile  of  defiance.  It  was 
then  that,  nettled  by  this,  she  brought  down  her  plump 
little  fist  upon  the  table  and  cried,  "  I'll  do  it" 

"  Brava  !"  cried  Charley,  patting  her  on  the  back. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  343 

"And  you,  sir!"  said  she,  turning  upon  him.  "I 
don't  believe  you  think  I  can  do  it." 

"  I  believe  you  capable  of  anything." 

"  Well,  I  will  show  you.  Decamp  forthwith,  both 
of  you !" 

Charley  and  I  decamped  accordingly,  and  betook 
ourselves  to  a  very  pleasant  beer-garden  (for  this  col 
loquy  chanced  to  be  held  in  Eichmond),  where  we 
spent  a  couple  of  hours.  On  our  return  we  found 
Alice  sitting  with  dishevelled  hair  and  looking  very 
disconsolate. 

"  Where  is  chapter  fifty-one  ?" 

Alice  pointed  rather  snappishly  to  the  waste-basket, 
in  which  lay  several  sheets  of  paper,  torn  into  shreds. 

"  Ah  !"  said  I,  "  let  us  put  the  pieces  together,  Charley, 
and  see  how  she  got  on."  And  Charley  and  I  made  for 
the  basket.  The  result  was  a  battle  royal,  at  the  end  of 
which  the  shreds  had  become  bits  of  the  size  of  postage- 
stamps,  mingled  with  which,  all  over  the  room,  lay  the 
ruins  of  the  basket. 

"  You  give  it  up,  then  ?" 

"  Not  for  a  moment,"  replied  she,  panting. 

A  week  passed  before  Alice  summoned  us  to  hear  her 
chapter  read.  Not  with  a  view  to  criticism,  however; 
tor  it  was  agreed  that  neither  Charley  nor  I  should 
utter  one  word,  either  of  praise  or  censure.  Whatever 
she  produced  was  to  be  printed  just  as  she  wrote  it; 
and  here  it  is,  word  for  word,  just  as  it  came  from  her 
pen. 

And  if  any  reader,  during  its  perusal,  shall  come  to 
doubt  whether  it  be,  in  truth,  her  production ;  if  he 
shall  fail  to  discover  one  solitary  trait  of  our  merry- 
sparkling,  laugh-compelling  enchantress,  it  will  be  but 
another  proof  that  what  people  are  has  nothing  to  do 
with  what  they  write.  If,  for  example,  the  reader 
shall  find  this  work  dull — but  enough. 

Moving  nearer  the  lamp,  Alice  read  with  a  resolute 
spirit  but  faltering  voice  as  follows : 


344  .        THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

CHAPTER  LI. 

BY  ALICE   FROBISHER,   LOVE-EDITOR. 

THEY  stood  face  to  face,  these  two;  he  with  out- 
Btretched  hand  to  receive  the  goblet  which  she  held. 

"  I'd  rather  help  myself." 

"  Why  ?  But  of  course,  if  you  prefer  it."  And  he 
stood  aside. 

She  glanced  at  his  face.  "  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to  be 
rude.  Help  me,  then ;  thank  you."  And  barely  moist 
ening  her  lips  (for  somehow  a  choking  sensation  seized 
her),  she  handed  him  back  the  tumbler. 

It  is  in  our  premonitions  that  we  women  have  some 
compensation  for  our  inferiority  in  strength  to  men. 
It  was  not  an  accident  that  the  P}rthia  and  the  Sibyl 
were  women.  The  delicate,  responsive  fibre  of  her 
nervous  system  makes  every  woman  half  a  prophetess. 

"  You  must  have  been  parched  with  thirst,"  said  he, 
holding  up  the  goblet,  with  a  smile. 

"I  suppose  it  was  only  imagination." 

Trivial  words ;  yet  he  knew  and  she  felt  that  a  crisis 
in  their  lives  was  at  hand.  It  is  thus,  I  am  told,  that 
soldiers  will  often  joke  and  babble  of  nothings  when 
crouched  along  the  frowning  edge  of  battle. 

"Only  imagination,"  said  he,  catching  at  the  words. 
(They  were  walking  slowly,  side  by  side,  from  the 
dining-room  to  the  parlor.)  "  And  is  there  anything 
else  in  life  worth  living  for?  The  facts  of  lilTe,  what 
are  they  but  dry  crusts,  the  merest  husks,  which  con 
tent  the  body,  perhaps,  while  leaving  the  soul  unsatis 
fied  ?" 

It  was  to  minor  chords,  as  I  have  said  somewhere 
above,  that  Mary's  nature  gave  readiest  response ;  and 
these  had  been  struck  with  no  uncertain  hand. 

"  You  speak  feelingly,"  said  she,  without  looking  up. 

"And  no  wonder;  for  of  these  husks  of  life — husks 
without  a  kernel — I  have  had  my  share ;  but  of  late — " 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  345 

They  had  reached  the  parlor  window  and  found  the 
piazza  deserted.  How  inconsistent  is  the  human  heart, 
more  especially  that  of  woman.  Mary  had  longed  to 
find  herself  alone,  for  one  short  quarter  of  an  hour, 
with  this  man  who  had  so  troubled  her  peace.  She  had 
confidence  in  her  woman's  tact, — felt  sure  that,  if 
opportunity  were  given,  she  could  pluck  away  the 
mask  which  concealed  his  heart,  without  revealing  her 
own.  Strangely  enough,  during  all  the  time  they  had 
been  under  one  roof,  she  had  not  had  such  an  oppor 
tunity.  This  had,  in  fact,  been  one  cause  of  her 
troubled  curiosity.  He  had  seemed  studiously  to  avoid 
finding  himself  alone  with  her,  and  with  her  only  of  all 
the  gii-ls.  It  had  come  now, — come  so  suddenly, — and 
she  trembled.  She  leaned  out  of  the  window. 

"  They  are  all  gone,"  said  she,  withdrawing  her  head 
and  looking  up  at  the  Don  with  a  scared  look. 

Was  not  that  sinking  of  the  heart  a  presage  of 
sorrow?  "Would  it  not  have  been  better  for  thee, 
poor  child,  to  have  hearkened  to  the  voice  of  its  Cas 
sandra-throbs  ?  Better  to  have  hastened  to  the  Hall, 
whence  thou  couldst  even  now  hear  issuing  the  sounds 
of  merry  music,  and  found  safety  in  numbers  ?  Some 
thing  whispered  this  in  her  fluttering  heart. 

"  But  of  late,"  repeated  the  man  of  her  destiny. 

"  Let  us  join  our  friends  in  the  Hall,"  said  she,  faintly. 

"Wise  words,  but  spoken  too  late.  Too  late ;  for  she 
felt  herself  compassed  round  about  by  a  nameless  spell 
that  would  not  be  broken ;  entwined  in  cords  soft  as 
silk  but  strong  as  fate. 

"  They  seem  to  be  getting  on  famously  without  us." 

"  Yes,  but  I  thought—" 

"  Thought  what  ?" 

"  I  thought  you  must  be  longing  to  hear  Lucy  play." 
And  she  gave  a  hasty  glance  at  his  face. 

There  was  a  revelation  in  the  look  that  met  hers. 
The  veil  that  had  darkened  her  vision  fell  away. 
Through  those  glorious  eyes  of  his,  so  full  of  tender 
flame,  she  saw  into  his  heart  of  hearts ;  and  no  image 
of  Lucy  was  imprinted  thereon  ;  nor  had  ever  been. 
'Twas  her  own,  instead  sat  enthroned  there. 


346  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

Wrung  as  she  had  been,  for  weeks,  with  conflicting 
emotions,  the  revulsion  of  feeling  that  now  came  over 
her  was  too  great  for  her  strength.  Her  knees  tottered 
beneath  her ;  the  room  swam  before  her  eyes. 

"Somehow  I  feel  a  little  tired,"  said  she;  and  she 
sank  down  upon  a  sofa  which  stood  near. 

Where  was  all  her  tact  gone  ?  Was  she  not  to  un 
veil  his  heart  while  hiding  her  own? 

All  is  fair  in  love  and  war ;  and  in  both  the  best-laid 
schemes  are  undone  by  a  surprise.  The  enemy  had 
found  the  citadel  unguarded  and  rushed  in. 

"  Will  you  allow  me  ?"  said  he. 

She  made  no  reply  beyond  a  faint  smile,  and  he  took 
his  seat  beside  her. 

"  You  spoke  of  music  just  now.  Lucy  has  a  charm 
ing  touch ;  but  I  know  a  voice  that  is,  to  me  at  least, 
richer  than  all  the  harmonies  of  a  symphony,  softer 
than  an  JEolian  harp,  gentler  than  the  cooing  of  a 
dove." 

She  made  a  brave  effort  to  look  unconscious.  "  Oh, 
how  beautiful  it  must  be !  How  I  should  like  to  hear 
such  a  voice !" 

"  I  hear  it  now !     I  am  drinking  it  in !" 

It  was  a  draught  which  seemed  to  intoxicate  him; 
and  the  circle  of  the  spell  which  bound  them  grew 
narrower.  She  could  feel  his  eager,  frequent  breath 
upon  her  cheek,  whose  burning  glow  lent  a  more  liquid 
lustre  to  her  dark  eyes.  They  spoke  little.  What 
need  of  multiplying  words?  Did  they  not  know  all? 
Ah,  supremest  moment  of  our  lives,  and  restfullest, 
when  two  souls  rush  together,  at  last,  and  are  one ! 

Somehow,  by  chance,  just  then — if  things  which 
always  manage  to  happen  can  be  said  to  come  by 
chance — somehow  their  hands  met.  Met  somewhere 
along  the  back  of  the  sofa,  perhaps — but  no  matter. 

Hardly  their  hands,  either.  It  was  the  forefinger 
tip,  merely,  of  his  right  hand  that  chanced  to  rest  its 
weight  across  the  little  finger  of  her  left. 

A  taper  and  a  soft  and  a  dainty  little  finger, — and  a 
weak,  withal.  Why  should  it  scamper  off  before  it 
was  hurt?  After  all,  it  was  but  an  accident,  perhaps, 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  347 

and  a  neighborly  sort  of  accident,  at  the  worst.  Who 
could  say  that  it  was  a  bold,  bad  forefinger?  Perhaps 
it  did  not  know  it  was  there  ! 

And  so  that  weak  little  digit  lay  there,  still  as  a 
mouse,  though  blushing,  blushing  (ah  me,  how  it  did 
blush  !),  and  all  of  a  flutter. 

After  all,  are  not  even  strangers  continually  shaking 
hands  ?  And  if  that  be  so,  why  should  one  run  away, 
merely  because — but  the  thing  is  not  worth  a  discussion. 

I  have  been  much  longer  in  telling  it  than  it  was  in 
happening.  The  thrill  had  barely  flashed  through  that 
rose-tipped  little  digit  when  he  seized  her  hand,  and 
taking  it  in  both  his,  pressed  it  again  and  again  to  his 
heart;  then  the  other;  and  drawing  her  towards  him, 
bent  over  her  and  breathed  into  her  ear  words  never 
to  be  forgotten.  Not  many,  but  strong, — vehement 
with  long-suppressed  passion. 

As  though  a  mountain-torrent  had  burst  its  bonds. 

She  had  read  of  innumerable  wooings  and  imagined 
many  besides;  but  never  one  like  this.  She  tried  to 
speak,  she  knew  not  what,  but  her  tongue  refused  to 
do  its  office. 

"  And  have  you  no  word  for  me  ?  No  little  word  of 
hope  ?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  It  was  but  for  a  moment  ; 
for  she  could  not  longer  withstand  his  impassioned 
gaze.  But  in  that  brief  glance,  half  wondering,  half 
shrinking,  he  read  his  answer,  and  in  an  instant  she 
found  herself  enveloped  in  those  mighty  arras, — found 
herself  lying  across  that  broad  chest,  his  right  arm 
around  her,  his  left  supporting  her  head,  that  nestled 
with  upturned  face  against  his  shoulder.  With  upturned 
face  and  closed  eyes. 

She  had  surrendered  at  discretion.  When  she  felt 
herself,  again  and  again,  pressed  to  his  heart,  she  made 
no  protest; — gave  no  sign  when  he  devoured  her 
cheeks,  her  lips,  with  kisses,  countless,  vehement-ten 
der, — lay  upon  that  broad  shoulder  in  a  kind  of  swoon. 

She  had  waited  so  long  and  it  had  come  so  suddenly, 
this  cyclone  of  love ! 

Lay  there  upon  that  broad  chest, — she-  so  little, — 


348  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

with  upturned  face  but  closed  lids,  from  beneath  which 
forced  their  way  drop  after  drop  of  happy  tears. 
Happy  tears?  Did  not  they  too  tremble,  tremble,  as 
they  lingered,  waiting  to  be  kissed  away  ? 

Lay  there,  nestled  upon  that  strong  arm,  and  drunk 
with  the  wine  of  young  love ;  the  past  forgot,  the  future 
banished, — living  in  the  present  alone.  A  present,  de 
licious,  dreamy,  and  wrapped  in  rose-colored  incense- 
breathing  mist.  Shutting  out  all  the  world  save  only 
him  and  her.  Prom  afar  comes  floating  to  her  ear, 
from  the  Hall,  the  sound  of  muffled  laughter, — comes 
floating  the  drowsy  tinkling  of  the  piano,  meaningless 
and  inane !  All  things  else  are  shams.  Love  alone  ia 
reall 

Yes,  pillow  thy  head  upon  that  arm,  thy  heart  upon 
that  hope,  while  yet  thou  mayest  I 

For  dost  not  heed  how  within  that  deep  chest,  against 
which  thy  fair  young  bosom  palpitates  and  flutters, — 
markest  thou  not  how  'tis  a  lion-heart  seems  to  beat 
therein?  To  beat  thereunder  with  tempestuous  thud, 
ominous  of  storm  and  wreck  ? 

And  those  eyes,  so  wondrous  tender  now,  and  soft 
(for  even  if  thou  hast  not  stolen  a  look  between  thy 
dewy  lids,  thou  hast  felt  their  caressing  glances),  and 
those  loving  eyes  ?  Hast  forgotten  how  their  change 
ful,  bickering  flashes  once  filled  thy  heart  with  dread, 
even  before  he  was  aught  to  thee  ? 

If  thou  hast,  dream  on — dream  on  while  thou  mayest ! 


CHAPTER  LIT. 

WITH  the  last  word  Alice  dropped  the  manuscript  on 
the  table,  and  hastily  left  the  room.  Charley  shot 
forth,  with  a  vigorous  puff,  a  ring  of  heroic  proper, 
tions. 

"  Upon  my  word,  Jack,  I  didn't  think  it  was  in  the 
old  girl  1  Capital !  It  is,  by  Jove !" 

"  Capital,"  said  I. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  349 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "  it  is.     But,  I  say,  Jack—" 

"  What  ?"  said  I,  with  some  expectancy,  for  he  had 
lowered  his  voice  to  a  confidential  whisper. 

"  It  is  very  clever  in  the  old  girl,  and  all  that,  you 
know.  Jove !  didn't  she  hit  out  on  a  high  line  ? 
'Incense-breathing  mist,' — how  does  that  strike  you, 
Hein  ?  And  '  tempestuous  thud  ?' — what  have  you  got 
to  say  to  that  ?  And  '  bickering  eyes  ?'  But  I  say, 
Jack-Whack,  old  boy—" 

"Well?" 

"  I  say,  you  won't  tell  her  what  I  am  going  to  say  ?" 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  Well,  I  won't  deny  that  it  is  well  written,  and  in  a 
high,  romantic  vein ;  but — now  you  won't  tell  her? — 
but  before  I  would  have  it  thought  that  /  wrote  that 
chapter,  you  might  shoot  me  with  a  brass-barrelled 
pistol." 

With  that  he  took  up  the  manuscript,  and  began 
running  his  eye  over  it  and  reading  aloud  passages 
here  and  there.  We  both  (I  am  ashamed  to  say)  soon 
got  to  laughing,  and  Charley  at  last  went  off  into  an 
almost  hysterical  state,  the  tears  streaming  down  his 
cheeks.  Just  then  Alice  suddenly  re-appeared,  and  his 
features  snapped  together  like  a  steel  trap.  Charley, 
in  point  of  fact,  was  not  laughing  at  his  wife,  but 
rather  at  the  inherent  absurdity  of  all  love-scenes; 
but  he  felt  guilty  when  she  entered  the  room,  and 
looked  preternaturally  solemn. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  asked  Alice. 

"  I  thought  it  was  agreed  that  there  were  to  be  no 
criticisms  ?" 

"Yes;  but  you  and  Jack  have  been  criticising  my 
chapter  already." 

"  In  your  absence,  of  course." 

"  And  I  heard  you  laughing." 

"Laughing?  What  do  you  suppose  there  was  to 
laugh  at  ?  In  point  of  fact,  I  said  it  was  capital ;  didn't 
I,  Jack  ?" 

"  Yes ;  and  I  agreed  with  him." 

"  Really  ?"  asked  she,  looking  from  one  to  the  other 
of  us  with  keen  suspicion  in  her  eyes. 

30 


350  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  Yes ;  honestly,  my  dear,  it  does  you  credit." 

Alice  looked  pleased. 

"  Of  course,  however,  any  one  could  tell,  at  a  glance, 
that  it  was  from  a  woman's  pen." 

"  I  don't  see  why,"  said  she,  bridling.  "  So  far  from 
that  being  the  case,  I'll  bet  you  a  box  of  gloves  that 
when  the  book  comes  out,  the  critics  will  say  that  not 
one  line  of  it  was  written  by  me,  and  that  I  am  a 
purely  mythical  personage,  invented  out  of  the  whole 
cloth." 

"  Done,"  said  he ;  "  they  will  say  nothing  of  the  kind. 
By  the  way,  can  you  tell  me,  Alice,  why  it  is  that 
women  always  put  so  much  hugging  and  kissing  in 
their  books  ?" 

"  I  believe  they  do,"  said  Alice,  laughing. 

"Jack  would  not  have  dared  to  make  that  chapter 
so — so — warm,  in  fact.  Why,  it  took  away  my  breath, 
the  brisk  way  in  which  you  enveloped  Mary  in  the 
Don's  arms.  Jack  could  not  have  brought  about  such 
a  consummation  in  less  than  three  chapters." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  Jack.  It  was  human  nature, 
— woman's  nature,  at  any  rate." 

"Oho!  live  and  learn,  Jackl" 
•    "  I  am  taking  notes." 

"And  act  on  them,"  rejoined  Alice,  with  a  rather 
malicious  allusion  to  certain  recent  incidents  in  my  own 
personal  career.  "  Women  like  aggressive  lovers ;  so 
next  time — " 

"But  really,  Alice,"  said  Charley,  coming  to  my 
rescue,  "  that  chapter  of  yours — such  as  it  is, — now  no 
offence, — I  mean  giving,  as  it  does,  a  love-passage  from 
a  woman's  point  of  view,  is  very  well  done.  And  one 
thing,  Jack,  seems  to  me  especially  to  be  commended. 
It  is  positively  artistic,  the  way  in  which  she  contrives 
to  cast  a  shadow  upon  the  pair,  as  they  sit  basking  in 
the  sunshine  of — ah — in  fact — sunshine  of  young  love — 
ahem — match,  Jack  —  thank  you — ahem."  Charley 
reddened  a  little,  conscious  of  having  been  betrayed 
into  an  unwonted  burst  of  eloquence.  "And  very 
cleverly  indeed,"  added  he,  "  that  shadow  is  wrought 
by  the  very  flash  of  light  which  will  give  our  readers  a 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  351 

momentary  glimpse  of  certain  lines  in  the  nature  of 
poor  Dory,  which  you  had  not  previously  brought  out." 

"  Inexorabilis  acer"  said  I,  musing. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Alice,  turning  to  her  husband;  "how 
often  have  I  heard  you  apply  those  words  to  your  poor 
friend.  They  are  not  to  be  found — in — Yirgil?  At  any 
rate,  I  cannot  recall  such  a  passage." 

"  No ;  they  are  part  of  a  verse  in  which  Horace  gives 
a  characterization  of  Achilles." 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

I  HAVE  said  that  Mary  was  romantic ;  and  I  don't 
know  that  I  could  give  any  clearer  proof  of  the  fact 
than  this :  as  she  lay  sleepless  that  night,  reviewing 
the  scenes  and  events  of  the  last  few  months,  and  more 
especially  of  the  preceding  day, — as  she  lay  there 
silently  pondering,  and  realized  that  she  knew  nothing 
of  the  history,  and  was  far  from  sure  that  she  knew 
even  the  name  of  the  man  to  whom  she  had  so  thor 
oughly  committed  herself, — she  felt  no  wish  that  mat 
ters  stood  otherwise.  Nay,  she  even  found  herself  re 
joicing  in  the  cloud  of  mystery  that  surrounded  her 
lover;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  was  with  a  feeling  of 
relief  that  she  had  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps  and 
the  hum  of  voices,  the  day  before,  announcing  the  re 
turn  from  the  Hall,  just  as  she  had  gathered  from  the 
Don's  manner  that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  a  revelation. 
But  they  had  been  interrupted,  and  she  had,  for  one 
more  day,  at  least,  the  privilege — a  delictous  one  to  a 
girl  of  her  temperament — of  allowing  her  imagination, 
unshackled  by  hard  fact,  to  play  around  this  strangely 
interesting  man,  who  had  shot  like  a  meteor  athwart 
her  path.  Singularly  enough, — or  it  would  have  been 
strange,  did  we  not  all  know  the  confidence  without 
reserve  which  a  woman  ever  places  in  the  man  to 
whom  she  has  given  her  heart, — strangely  enough, 
Mary  felt  not  the  slightest  misgiving  on  the  score  of 

30 


352  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

the  revelation  she  had  reason  to  look -for  on  the  mor 
row.  She  had  not  the  least  dread  that  that  revelation 
might  prove  of  such  a  character  as  to  make  imperative 
an  instant  breaking  off  of  relations  with  the  Don. 
What  she  dreaded  was  the  dispersal  of  her  illusions, 
the  end  of  her  sweet  dreams.  To-day  she  could  im 
agine — to-morrow  she  would  know. 

And  so,  next  day,  when  our  friends  sallied  forth  for 
a  walk,  and  it  fell  out,  partly  through  the  manceuvering 
of  Alice,  that  Mary  and  the  Don  began  to  be  farther 
and  farther  isolated  from  the  rest,  her  heart  began  to 
beat  so  quick  and  hard  that  utterance  became  difficult. 
Her  companion,  too,  seemed  preoccupied,  and  their  con 
versation  became  a  tissue  of  the  baldest  commonplace. 
At  last  he  stood  still,  and  with  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
ground,  was  silent, — silent  for  an  age,  as  it  seemed  to 
Mary.  At  last  he  looked  up. 

"  Mary,"  he  began, — it  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever 
addressed  her  thus,  and  her  heart  gave  a  quick  beat  of 
pleasure, — "  Mary,  there  is  something  I  must  say  to 
you,  and  we  could  not  find  a  better  opportunity.  There 
is  the  Argo ;  let  us  take  seats  in  it." 

She  assented  in  silence  and  with  a  sudden  sinking  of  , 
the  heart ;  for  there  rushed  before  her  mind,  in  tumult 
uous  throng,  all  the  dreadful  possibilities  of  the  coming 
revelation. 

"  Is  not  this,"  said  she,  as  she  took  her  seat  upon  one 
of  the  benches,  "  the  first  visit  that  you  and  I  hav<^ 
made  to  the  '  Fateful'  ?" 

"  '  The  Fateful,' "  she  repeated  to  herself.  Was  the 
name  ominous?  And  she  strove  to  hide,  beneath  a 
careless  smile,  the  deep  agitation  that  she  felt.  "  Do 
you  know,  I  feel  that  I  have  a  right  to  quarrel  with 
you  ?  For  I  alone  of  all  the  girls  have  never  been 
honored  by  you  with  an  invitation  to  visit  the  Argo. 
It  almost  looks  like  an  intentional  slight.  Was  it?" 

She  was  talking  at  random,  hardly  knowing  what  she 
said ;  anxious  only  to  put  off  for  a  few  brief  moments 
the  explanation  which  she  had  suddenly  begun  to  look 
upon  with  genuine  terror. 

It  is  thus  that,  when,  with  swollen  cheek,  we  have 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  353 

taken  our  seat  in  his  elaborate  chair,  we  strive  to  delay 
the  pitiless  dentist  (while  he,  adamantine  soul,  selects 
from  his  jingling  store  the  instrument  most  diabolically 
suited  to  our  case),  happy  with  a  happiness  all  too 
briefly  bright,  if  he  will  but  turn  and  admit  that  the 
day  is  fine.  [Jack's  mocking  pencil,  again  I  I  protest. 
Alice."] 

"  Yes,  it  was  intentional." 

She  looked  up. 

"  Well,  not  a  slight,  of  course,  but  intentional." 

"  Why  ?  I  cannot  imagine."  But  she  did  imagine 
why,  though  but  vaguely. 

"  Ah  !  I  am  glad  you  ask  that  question.  It  enables 
me  to  begin." 

But  he  did  not  begin.  He  knit  his  brows  instead, 
and  fixed  his  eyes  in  perplexity  upon  the  shining  sand. 
"  I  hardly  know  what  to  say  to  you." 

"  Then  don't  say  anything,"  exclaimed  she,  eagerly. 

"  Don't  say  anything?" 

"  Well,  not  about  that  /" 

"About  that  f" 

"  Well,  you  know — " 

"Yes,  I  dare  say  we  are  both  thinking  about  the 
same  thing." 

"  '  Great  minds  will,'  etc.,  you  know — " 

"  Say  loving  hearts."  And  he  took  her  hand.  "  Yes, 
I  admit  that  I  have  studiously  avoided  finding  myself 
alone  with  you." 

"  Were  you  afraid  of  me  ?    I  am  very  little  1" 

"I  was  afraid  of  myself ;  yesterday  proved  how 
justly  so." 

"Do  you  regret  yesterday  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  I  do  not.  But  I  ought  to.  I  had  no 
right  to  tell  you  I  loved  you." 

"  It  is  an  inalienable  right  of  every  man  to  tell  his 
love." 

"  At  any  rate,  I  beg  your  pardon  for  having  spoken 
mine." 

"  I  find  forgiveness  amazingly  easy,"  said  she,  laugh 
ing.  Then,  seriously,  "  Indeed,  your  scruples  are  over- 
nice.  The  sweetest  music  that  can  fall  on  the  ear  of  a 
x  30* 


354  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

woman  is.  as  Alice  says,  loving  words.  Why  should 
we  be  denied  it?  What  else  have  we  to  live  for?" 

"  But  I  owe  it  to  you — " 

"  You  owe  me  nothing !"  exclaimed  she,  hastily. 

"  But  I  wish  to  tell  you—" 

"  Tell  me  nothing  I  I  know  what  you  wish  to  say, 
but  you  shall  not  say  it, — not  yet,  at  least." 

He  smiled. 

"  No ;  I  see  you  before  me,  hear  your  voice  ;  I  have 
known  you,  such  as  you  are,  for  months.  I  wish  to 
know  no  more,  just  now.  Let  me  dream  on ;  do  not 
awaken  me.  Let  me  float  on,"  she  continued,  realis 
tically  clasping  the  gunwale  of  the  Argo,  "  over  rose- 
tipped  waves,  careless  what  shores  lie  beyond.  Let 
rae  dream  yet  a  little  longer."  And  rising  from  her 
seat,  she  dropped  on  one  knee  in  front  of  him,  and 
bringing  her  two  hands  together,  placed  them  within 
his.  "  Not  one  word.  I  trust  you  ;  I  am  satisfied,"  said 
she,  with  a  voice  low  yet  ringing,  ringing  with  proud 
enthusiasm, — a  voice  full  of  strange  thrills,  vibrating, 
eloquent.  This,  her  speaking  attitude,  and  the  impas 
sioned  faith  that  illumined  her  eyes,  fired  his  breast 
with  an  indescribable  glow  of  ecstasy.  Pressing  her 
hands  between  his  and  raising  his  eyes,  he  exclaimed 
with  a  fervor  that  was  almost  religious, — 

"  Adorable  Mary !  I  have  dreamed  dreams,  I  have 
seen  visions,  but  none  could  compare  with  this!" 

The  exaltation  of  his  voice,  the  spiritual  glory  of 
his  upturned  eyes,  the  sudden  burst  of  fervor,  the 
overmastering  force  of  his  impetuous  manhood,  hurried 
Mary's  imagination  to  giddy  heights.  She  could  have 
fallen  down  and  worshipped  him. 

"  Come,"  said  he,  more  gently ;  "  take  that  seat  and 
listen  to  me  for  a  moment." 

She  made  as  though  she  would  place  two  fingers  on 
his  lips. 

"  No  !"  said  he  (placing  his  lips  on  the  two  fingers). 
"Since  you  wish  it,  I  will  leave  unsaid  what  1  pur 
posed  saying.  It  is  a  strange  whim  on  your  part,  but  an 
altogether  charming  one  to  me,  since  it  gives  me  the 
right  to  believe  that  you  value  me  for  myself  alone.  I 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  355 

shall,  therefore,  respect  this  fancy  of  yours  as  long  as 
you  desire.  But  if  I  may  not  tell  you  who  I  am,  I  may 
at  least  say  what  I  am  not.  I  am  not  an  adventurer. 
You  toss  your  head ;  your  faith  is  lovely,  but  you 
know  I  might  have  been  one.  No  ?  Well,  at  any  rate, 
I  am  not.  I  am,  in  fact,  your  equal  in  social  position  ; 
so  that,  if  you  can  spare  a  place  for  me  in  your  heart, 
without  knowing  who  I  am,  you  will  not  have  to  expel 
me  when  you  condescend  to  hear  what  I  have  to  say." 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Mary,  with  a  merry  twinkle  in 
her  eyes,  "  I  believe  you  are  just  dying  to  tell  me  all 
about  yourself?" 

"  And  you  wild  to  have  me  do  so." 

The  sun  sparkled  upon  the  Eiver,  the  waves  mur 
mured  softly  at  their  feet,  beneath  a  gentle  breeze 
laden  with  the  mysterious  breath  of  awakening  spring ; 
and  these  two  sat  there  bantering  one  another,  like 
children,  gleefully.  Maiy  no  longer  recognized  the  man 
who  sat  before  her.  Every  line  had  passed  from  his  face ; 
and  but  for  his  Olympic  beard,  he  might  have  seemed  a 
great  jolly  boy  just  come  home  for  his  holidays.  She 
could  not  take  her  eyes  off  his  face.  She  was  scru 
tinizing  it,  wondering  where  could  be  lurking  those 
ambuscades  of  passion  that  she  thought  she  had  de 
tected  more  than  once.  And  the  fire-darting  flashes, 
where  were  they  hidden,  beneath  those  ingenuous 
glances,  so  tender,  so  soft,  so  caressing  ? 


CHAPTER  LIY. 

To  four  people  at  Elmington  that  was  a  happy  week. 
I  suspect  it  was  rather  a  dull  one  to  every  one  else. 

The  friendship  of  Alice  and  Mary  had  renewed  its 
youth.  Each  had  told  the  other  everything.  That  is, 
they  did  what  they  could ;  for  there  was  always  no 
end  left  to  tell.  Not  a  word  was  wasted,  not  a  moment 
spent  on  any  subject  but  one.  Never  had  two  young 
men  been  more  talked  about. 


356  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  We  are  both  so  well  suited,"  said  Alice.  "  To  a 
matter-of-fact  body  like  me,  Mr.  Frobisher — " 

"  Oh,  Alice,  he  is  just  too  charming,  with  his  quaint, 
humorous  ways  ;  and  then  so  devoted !" 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Why,  the  poor  man  is  just  dying  with  love,  and — " 

"  But  just  think  of  your  affair,  Mary !    When  are  you 

§oing  to  let  him  tell  you  who  he  is  ?  Oh,  I'll  tell  you. 
uppose  we  let  them  both  come  up  to  Richmond  at  the 
same  time  to  interview  our  respective  and  respected 
papas.  Oh,  won't  it  be  dreadful  /"  And  with  that  they 
fell  on  each  other's  necks  and  giggled. 

"  Mr.  Frobisher  says  he  will  be  hanged  if  he  speaks 
to  my  father.  He  says  he  thinks  it  a  liberty  to  ask 
any  man  for  his  daughter ;  so  he  intends  to  speak  to 
mother.  Bashful  ?  O-o-o-oh !" 

Charley  and  the  Don,  too,  had  their  confabulations, 
but  how  was  any  one  to  find  out  what  they  said  ?  But 
a  merrier,  jollier  soul  than  the  latter  it  would  have 
been  hard  to  find.  (I  believe  my  grandfather  would 
have  been  somewhat  scandalized  at  the  way  he  pro 
faned  the  Gruarnerius  with  his  jigs,  had  not  Charley 
made  casual  mention  of  the  gigas  of  Corelli  and  the 
old  Italian  school ;  which  seemed  to  lend  a  certain  air 
of  classicity  to  their  homely  Virginia  descendants.) 

These  four,  then,  were  happy.  But  upon  the  horizon 
of  Mary's  dreams  there  hung  a  speck  of  cloud.  It  was 
no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand,  but  its  jagged  edges, 
splotching  the  rosy  east,  marred  the  perfection  of  the 
dawn. 

To  say  what  that  cloud  was,  brings  up  a  subject 
upon  which  I  touch  with  extreme  reluctance. 

A  Bushwhacker  discussing  the  problems  of  religion, 
— what  will  be  said  of  him?  Love — feeling  my  in 
ability  to  depict  that,  I  accepted  the  kind  offices  of 
our  friend  Alice.  But  where,  among  the  bishops  and 
other  clergy — regular  officers, — am  I  to  find  one  will 
ing  to  be  associated  with  a  guerilla  like  myself?  Who 
among  them  would  write  a  few  chapters  for  this  book  ? 

But  the  chapters  must  be  written. 

The  reader  will  recall,  I  beg,  one  of  the  earlier  inci- 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  357 

dents  recorded  in  this  narrative  ;  where  the  writer  calls 
upon  the  Don  at  his  rooms  in  Richmond,  to  invite  him 
to  spend  Christmas  at  Blmington.  It  will  be  remem 
bered  that  I  found  him  reading  a  small  book,  which  he 
laid  down  upon  my  entrance,  and  that  chancing  to 
glance  at  the  little  volume  as  I  passed  out  of  the 
room,  I  saw  with  surprise  that  it  was  a  copy  of  the 
New  Testament.  With  surprise.  I  would  not  be 
understood  (not  for  the  world)  as  casting  a  slur  upon 
the  youth  of  Virginia.  They  read  their  Bibles,  of 
course ;  but  generally,  I  believe,  at  the  beginning  and 
end  of  the  day.  At  any  rate,  whether  it  was  the  hour 
of  the  evening  or  the  man  himself,  I  was  astonished. 

When  I  told  the  girls  what  I  had  seen,  they  were 
variously  affected,  according  to  their  several  natures. 
Here,  thought  Lucy,  is  one  more  good  young  man, — 
good  not  being,  with  her,  a  term  of  contempt.  Mary's 
imagination  was  fired.  Behold,  thought  she,  a  high, 
brave  young  spirit  that  hath  chosen  the  better  part. 
Alice,  being  what  neither  of  the  others  was,  in  the 
main  an  average  Yirginia  girl, — Alice  could  not  help  it, 
— the  little  scamp  laughed.  I  don't  know  that  it  oc 
curred  to  her  that  these  very  good  young  men  are,  take 
them  "  by  and  large,"  no  better  than  the  bad  young 
men  (and  not  half  so  interesting)  ;  all  I  know  is  that 
she  laughed,  and  made  the  others  laugh,  too,  though 
against  their  will. 

And  not  once  only.  For  weeks  afterwards  she  never 
spoke  of  the  Don  save  as  Parson  (or,  rather,  Pass'n) 
Smith.  Her  merry  fancy  played  countless  variations 
upon  this  single  string;  but  it  snapped  one  day, — 
snapped  very  suddenly,  the  first  Sunday  after  her  and 
Mary's  arrival  at  Elmington. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Alice,  as  she  and  the  other  girls 
were  getting  ready  for  church, — "  I  wonder  whether  the 
Pass'n  will  go  with  us?  Has  any  one  heard  him  in 
quiring  about  a  meeting-house?  What  a  favorite  he 
would  be  among  the  sistern  of  the  county !" 

As  they  went  down-stairs,  they  could  see  him  leaning 
against  a  pillar  on  the  porch. 

"  Look,  Mary ;  your  Pass'n  has  his  Sunday  face  on. 


358  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

How  dreadfully  serious  he  looks!  Mind,  girls,  no  fri 
volity  !  I'll  be  bound  he  says  '  Sabbath.'  " 

"  No  gentleman  ever  speaks  of  Sunday  as  '  the  Sab 
bath,'  "  said  Mary,  reproachfully. 

"  Very  true ;  and  he  is  a  gentleman  if  he  is  a  pass'n. 
Oh,  this  glove!  Mr.  Whacker,"  she  continued,  "here 
we  are  ;  and  all  ready,  for  a  wonder,  in  time." 

Wheels  were  crunching  along  up  to  the  steps;  horses, 
held  by  boys,  were  pawing  the  earth  ;  and  on  the  piazza 
there  was  the  rustle  of  dresses  and  the  subdued  hum 
of  preparation.  The  Don  alone  seemed  to  have  no 
part  in  the  proceedings.  Alice  drew  two  girls'  heads 
together. 

"  The  exhorter  looks  solemn !  The  drive  will  be 
hilarious  in  the  carriage  that  takes  him!  Listen  !" 

"  By  the  way,"  Mr.  Whacker  was  saying,  "  I  had 
forgotten  to  ask  you, — will  you  take  a  seat  in  the  car 
riage,  or  would  you  prefer  going  on  horseback  ?" 

"  Horseback,  by  all  means,"  whispered  Alice ;  "  the 
jolting  might  cheer  up  his  Kiverence." 

The  Don,  looking  down,  changed  color,  and  was 
visiblj7  embarrassed.  "  I"  remember,"  said  he,  presently, 
raising  his  eyes  to  those  of  Mr.  Whacker,  "  that  one  of 
the  first  things  you  said  to  me,  when  you  welcomed 
me  to  Elmington,  was  that  it  was  'Liberty  Hall.' " 

"Certainly,  oh,  certainly,"  rejoined  my  grandfather, 
in  his  cordial  way.  "  Choose  for  yourself.  That  pair 
of  thoroughbreds  may  look  a  trifle  light;  but  you  will 
find  they  will  take  you  spinning.  Then  there  is  the 
buggy.  But  perhaps  you  would  prefer  to  ride?  I  can 
recommend  that  sorrel  that  Zip  is  holding."  (Zip  gave 
a  furtive  pressure  on  the  curb  which  made  the  sorrel 
arch  his  neck  and  paw  the  ground.) 

"  I  have  not  made  myself  clear,"  said  the  Don,  with 
a  constrained  smile.  "  I  meant  to  beg  you  to — to  let 
me  take  care  of '  Liberty  Hall'  to-day." 

"You  mean,"  said  my  grandfather,  taking  in  the  idea 
with  some  difficulty,  "  that  you  do  not  wish  to  go  to 
church  to-day?" 

The  Don  bowed. 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Whacker,  with  some  eager- 


THE  STORY  OF  DON   MIFF.  359 

ness ;  for  he  felt  that  he  had  inadvertently  pressed  hig 
guest  beyond  the  limits  of  good  breeding.  "Certjiinly, 
of  course,  I  had  not  thought  of  it.  Of  course  you  have 
not  yet  quite  recovered  your  strength." 

The  Don  bowed  his  head  deferentially,  as  though 
willing  to  let  this  explanation  of  his  host  pass  un 
challenged  ;  but  a  certain  something  that  lurked  be 
neath  his  rather  mechanical  smile  showed  that  that 
explanation  was  Mr.  Whacker's,  not  his.  A  sudden 
constraint  came  over  the  company,  and  they  were  glad 
to  get  off. 

When  the  party  returned,  the  Don  was  absent,  walk 
ing  ;  and  when,  at  dinner,  there  was  the  usual  rambling 
discussion  of  the  sermon,  the  singing,  and  so  forth,  he 
took  no  part  in  the  conversation.  The  next  Sunday, 
when  the  vehicles  and  horses  came  up  to  the  door,  the 
Don  was  found  to  be  missing;  having  absented  himself 
purposely,  as  seemed  likely ;  and  so  on  the  next  Sunday 
— and  on  the  next — to  the  end. 

It  was  remarked,  too,  that  never  once  did  he  take 
part  in  those  innocent  little  theological  discussions 
which  are  apt  to  spring  up  in  Virginia  homes,  around 
the  family  hearth,  after  tea,  Sunday  evenings.  As  he 
was  not  a  talker,  as  a  rule,  his  silence  would  not  have 
been  obtrusive,  save  for  his  persistency  in  maintaining 
it.  As  it  was,  in  the  end  his  very  silence  seemed  a 
sort  of  crying  aloud.  Alice  had  called  him  "Pass'n" 
for  the  last  time. 

All  this  gave  Mary,  for  reasons  of  her  own,  great 
concern, — far  greater  concern  than  an  average  girl 
would  have  felt.  What  those  reasons  were  I  shall  ex 
plain  at  the  proper  time.  Suffice  it  to  say  at  present, 
that  just  in  proportion  as  her  interest  in  this  singular 
man  deepened  did  her  anxiety  as  to  his  religious  views 
grow  keener.  The  time  had  come,  at  last,  when  she 
felt  that  she  had  the  right  to  question  him ;  but  the 
very  thought  (though  ever  in  her  mind)  of  asking  him 
why  he  never  went  to  church  made  her  shiver. 
Strange!  Now  that  he  was  her  avowed  lover,  her 
awe  of  him  was  greater  than  ever  before.  He  was 
now  frank,  joyous,  playful — 


360  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

But  even  when  a  caged  lion  is  romping  with  his 
mate,  you  shall  ofttimes  see  the  glitter  of  his  mighty 
teeth ! 


CHAPTER  LV. 

MY  grandfather  was  looking  serious.  Mr.  Carter 
had  come  down  from  Richmond,  and,  next  day,  the 
great  American  'Undulator  and  Boneless  Vertebrate 
was  to  leave  Elmington,  taking  with  her  Alice  and 
Mary ;  and  these  notable  Christmas  holidays  would 
come  to  an  end. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  one  of  those  delicious 
days  in  February,  which  every  year  (in  the  Land  of 
the  Free  and  the  Home  of  the  Brave)  delude  us  with 
the  hope  of  an  early  spring  (though  we  all  know  that  we 
never  have  any  spring,  late  or  early);  deceiving  even 
yonder  pair  of  bluebirds,  who,  warmed  into  forgetful- 
ness  of  that  March  which  lies  between  them  and  the 
abundant  and  nutritious  worm  of  summer,  go  gallivan 
ting  up  and  down  the  orchard,  chirruping  eternal  fidel 
ity  ;  peering  into  this  old  tree  and  into  that,  in  quest 
of  some  hollow  knot,  so  suggestive  (to  the  bluebirdish 
mind)  of  matrimony. 

Where  Charley  and  Alice  were  on  this  bright  after 
noon  does  not  much  matter.  No  doubt  they  were 
together  and  happy;  or,  if  wretched,  wretched  with 
that  sweet  wretchedness  which  makes  the  tearful  part 
ings  of  young  lovers  so  truly  delicious. 

There's  your  Araminta.  Nineteen  years  of  her  life 
had  she  passed,  ignorant  of  your  existence.  T'other 
day  you  met ;  and  now,  she  who  gave  you  not  so  much 
as  a  sigh  during  all  those  nineteen  years,  cannot  hear 
you  speak  of  a  month's  absence  but  she  distils  upon 
your  collar  the  briny  tear!  She  has  found  out  during 
the  last  few  days,  your  Araminta,  that  she  cannot, 
breathe  where  you  are  not. 

Absurd  Araminta — but  nice? 

Wherever  else  they  may  have  been,  they  were  not  in 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  361 

the  Argo.  The  Don  and  Mary  were  there;  and  in  the 
then  infancy  of  naval  architecture  row-boats  were  not 
built  large  enough  to  hold,  comfortably,  two  pairs  of 
lovers. 

Mary  was  seated  in  the  boat,  he  lounging  around  it ; 
now  leaning  against  the  gunwale,  now  stalking  idly  to 
and  fro  in  the  shining  sand,  rejoicing  in  his  youth.  They 
talked  of  the  passing  sea-gulls,  the  twittering  bluebirds, 
the  rippling  waves,  the  rosy  clouds,  the  generous  sun 
light, — of  everything,  of  nothing,  it  mattered  not ;  for 
love  hath  power  to  transfigure  the  plainest  things. 

Presently  the  Don  said,  standing  with  fingers  inter 
laced  behind  his  back,  and  looking  far  away  down  the 
River,  "  Do  you  know,  it  would  be  hard  for  me  to  live 
at  a  spot  remote  from  salt  water?  All  the  great 
thoughts  that  have  moved  the  world  have  arisen 
within  sound  of  the  sea-waves.  She  is  the  mother  of 
civilization.  It  is  the  land  which  separates  the  peo 
ples  of  the  earth,  not  the  water.  It  thrills  me  to  think 
that,  as  I  stand  here,  this  river  which  splashes  against 
my  foot  is  part  of  that  ocean  which  washes  the  shores 
of  England,  of  France,  of  Italy,  of  Greece,  of  Pales 
tine." 

Palestine !  Strange  word  on  the  lips  of  a  man  who 
never  went  to  church. 

"  Then,  again,"  continued  he,  with  a  smile, "  I  love  the 
sea  because  it  reminds  me — I  don't  mind  telling  you, 
since  I  have  let  you  into  my  little  secret — because  it 
reminds  me  of  Homer,  and  the  epithets  he  has  applied 
to  it." 

"Ah,  that  reminds  me  of  something!  Have  you 
forgotten  your  promise  to  talk  to  me  about  Homer? 
Have  you  that  little  copy  of  the  Iliad  in  your  pocket 
now  ?" 

"  Of  course,"  said  he,  tapping  his  vest. 

"  Will  you  not  let  me  have  it  in  my  hand  now  ?" 

He  shook  his  head,  smiling.  "  No  ;  but  have  you  not 
the  right  to  command  me  now?  Speak,  and  I  obey!" 

"  Ah  !  Then  I  command  you,  on  your  allegiance,  to 
deliver  that  book  into  my  hands." 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  his  hand  shook  a 
Q  31 


362  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

little  when  he  placed  the  hook  in  hers.  She  took  the 
left  lid  between  finger  and  thumb ;  but  his  look  of  ill- 
suppressed  agitation  made  her  hesitate,  and  her  hand 
began  to  tremble  now,  she  knew  not  why. 

"  May  I  look  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  rather  shaky  voice. 

"  If  you  will !  But  I  warn  you  that  that  fly-leaf  will 
tell  you  what  you  have  forbidden  me  to  reveal." 

"  Oh  1"  cried  she,  with  a  start.  And  the  book  fell 
upon  the  shining  sand. 

He  stooped  and  picked  it  up.  "  Have  you  had  enough 
of  it  ?"  - 

"  More  than  enough, — for  the  present,  at  least,"  she 
replied,  smiling  faintly.  "However,"  she  added,  "I 
should  like  to  look  at  the  outside  of  it.  How  veiy  old 
it  looks,"  said  she,  as  she  took  it  in  her  hand.  "  Why, 
the  corners  are  worn  perfectly  round  j  you  must  know 
it  all  by  heart." 

"  Almost,"  said  he. 

"And  the  back — what  I"  exclaimed  she,  with  aston 
ishment.  "  Why,  this  is  not  the  Iliad  I  It  is  a  copy 
of  the  New  Testament !"  And  she  held  up  the  faded 
title  before  his  eyes. 

With  a  black  look  of  annoyance,  but  without  a  word, 
the  Don  seized  the  book,  thrust  it  into  his  pocket,  and 
began  striding  to  and  fro.  Presently  he  stopped  in 
front  of  her. 

"  I  put  my  hand  into  the  wrong  pocket,"  said  he, 
with  obvioiis  vexation. 

"  Why,  yes.  But  what's  the  harm  ?"  said  she,  in  u 
soothing  voice.  "  Carrying  a  Testament  in  one's  pocket 
is  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,  I  hope  ?" 

"  Certainly  not !  But,"  he  added,  with  a  half  smile, 
"  taking  it  out  is  different." 

"  And  so,"  she  began,  feeling  her  way,  "  you  carry 
the  Iliad  in  one  pocket  and  the  Testament  in  the  other." 
But  it  was  not  now  of  the  Iliad  that  she  wished  to 
hear  him  talk. 

"  Yes  ;  a  rather  ill-assorted  couple,  you  would  say  ?" 

"  Very !  One  might  suppose  you  either  a — Greek 
professor  in  disguise — or — a — minister." 

He  threw  his  head  back  and  laughed.     "  I  never 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  363 

thought  of  that ;  so  one  might.  "We  generally  look 
too  deep  for  motives.  Truth  is  not  often  found  in  the 
bottom  of  a  well.  I  carry  these  two  books  simply 
because — " 

She  looked  up. 

"  Because,"  he  added,  gravely,  "  they  were  given  to 
me  by — people  that  I — cared  for." 

Constituted  as  she  was,  these  few  words  affected 
Mary  strongly.  He  had  said  so  little,  yet  so  much; 
revealing,  in  the  unconscious  simplicity  of  his  nature, 
the  very  intensity  of  feeling  that  he  strove  to  hide. 
And  as  she  looked  upon  the  two  little  volumes  that  he 
had  carried  all  these  years,  saw  how  they  had  been 
worn  away  against  his  heart,  a  feeling  of  awe  came 
over  her.  She  found  herself  comparing,  in  her  imagi 
native  way,  the  man  before  her  with  one  of  the  great, 
silent  powers  of  nature, — the  dark-floating  tide,  for  in 
stance,  so  noiseless  when  unresisted ;  or  a  black  cloud 
charged  with  thunder,  that  seems,  at  first,  but  to  mut 
ter  in  its  sleep,  like  a  Cyclops  in  a  battle-dream,  but 
when  yonder  mountain  dares  to  rear  his  crest  in  its 
path — 

"  You  value  them  very  highly  on  account  of  the 
givers,"  put  in  Mary,  as  an  entering  wedge. 

"  Naturally  j  but  not  exclusively  on  that  account." 
And  he  drew  the  two  little  volumes  from  his  pockets, 
arid,  placing  them  side  by  side,  surveyed  them  lov 
ingly. 

Here  was  Mary's  opportunity.  Painfully  anxious  as 
she  had  been  as  to  her  lover's  religious  convictions,  she 
had  shrunk,  hitherto,  from  a  direct  question.  But  it 
would  be  easy  now,  she  saw,  to  lead  him  on  to  a  full 
confession  of  his  faith  without  seeming  to  interrogate 
him. 

She  began  by  drawing  him  out  on  Homer ;  but  what 
he  said  she  hardly  heard,  so  tremulously  eager  was  she 
to  know  what  he  thought  of  that  other  little  book 
which  he  held  iu  his  hand.  One  thing  struck  her  at 
the  time,  and  she  had  cause  to  remember  it  afterwards: 
the  strong  admiration  he  evinced  for  the  character  of 
Achilles,  the  flinty-hearted  captain  of  the  Myrmidons. 


364  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  • 

Presently  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  You  hold  them 
side  by  side  ;  but  could  two  books  be  more  different  ?" 

He  laid  the  Iliad  upon  the  seat  beside  him,  and  taking 
the  other  little  volume  in  his  hand,  held  it  up  before 
him.  As  he  did  so,  there  was  something  in  his  look 
that  thrilled  her  with  expectancy.  While  he  had  been 
indicating  the  clear-cut  outlines  of  Homer's  marvellous 
creation,  she  had  felt  (though  hardly  hearing  with  more 
than  her  outward  ear)  that  ho  spoke  admirably,  and 
remarked  the  high  intellectuality  that  illumined  his 
features  ;  but  now  a  sudden  glow  suffused  his  counte 
nance,  and  strange,  soft  lights  danced  in  his  eyes.  She 
hung  upon  his  opening  lips  with  deep  suspense  ;  for 
something  told  her  that  upon  the  words  he  was  about 
to  utter  her  own  happiness  depended. 

The  hour  that  followed  was  passed  in  a  way  which 
is  probably  rare  with  parting  lovers. 


****          #* 
****          *         * 


"No,  I  have  never  read  Chateaubriand's  Genie  du 
Christianisme,  and,"  added  he,  with  an  admiring  glance, 
"I  am  glad  of  it;  for  otherwise  I  should  not  have 
heard  your  brilliant  version  of  what  he  says.  I  am 
afraid,  however,  that,  well  as  he  puts  it,  I  am  hardly 
frank  enough  to  admit  that  parts  of  the  Old  Testament 
are  superior,  as  mere  literature,  to  everything  that  the 
Greeks  have  left  us.  The  truth  is,  however,  that  I 
know  so  little  of  the  Old  Testament  that  I  have  no 
right  to  an  opinion  ;  but  this  little  book,"  continued 
he,  holding  it  up,  "  I  know  by  heart.  I  mean  the  gos 
pels,"  he  added,  quickly  ;  "  and  I  don't  hesitate  to  say 
that  in  all  literature  you  shall  not  find  such  a  gem." 

The  gospels  a  gem  of  literature  !  A  weight  seemed 
to  press  on  Mary's  heart. 

"  Listen  1"  And  he  opened  the  book,  and  turning  a 
few  pages  with  nervous  eagerness,  found  a  passage. 
"Listen!  Could  anything  be  more  beautiful?" 

His  lips  parted;  but,  without  reading  a  word,  he 
closed  the  volume  upon  his  forefinger.  "  Pardon  me  ; 
but  do  you  know,  I  fear  you  can  hardly  have  more  than 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  365 

a  suspicion  of  how  divinely  beautiful  this  little  book 
really  is  ?" 

She  looked  up,  puzzled. 

"  You  have  heard  it  read,  week  after  week,  it  is  true, 
but  read  with  a  saintly  snivel, — a  holy  whine." 

Mary  would  have  protested,  but  a  certain  dark  flash 
of  bitter  disdain  that  accompanied  these  words  checked 
her ;  and  she  was  silent. 

"Let  me  read  you,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "a  few 
of  my  favorite  passages,  in  the  voice  of  a  mere  man." 

He  read  and  commented,  commented  and  read,  for 
perhaps  an  hour;  commented  without  rhetoric,  read 
without  art.  He  merely  gave  himself  up  to  that  won 
drous  story. 

And  what  an  hour  for  Mary !  For  weeks  she  had 
longed  to  know  what  he  thought  upon  the  one  great 
subject  which  overshadowed  all  others  in  her  mind. 
Yes,  overshadowed, — for  hers  was  not  a  blithe  spirit. 
Had  longed  to  know,  yet  feared  to  ask.  And  now  that 
he  had  been  reading  and  talking  so  long,  did  he — as 
she  had  so  often  and  so  fervently  prayed  that  he 
should — did  he  think  as  she  did?  Alas,  it  was  but  too 
clear  that  he  did  not!  But  what  did  he  think ?  That 
she  could  not  tell,  so  strange  and  bewildering  were  the 
flashes  that  came  from  his  words.  Her  Virginia  the 
ology  gave  her  no  clue.  As  though  a  mariner  bore 
down  upon  a  coast  not  to  be  found  upon  his  chart :  the 
lights  are  there,  but  have  no  meaning  for  him. 

Equally  bewildered  was  Mary.  How  did  he  regard 
the  central  figure  of  that  wondrous  drama?  As  he 
read  and  talked  and^  talked  and  read,  a  will-o'-the-wisp 
danced  before  her  eyes,  leading  her  here,  there,  every 
where,  but  not  to  be  seized ! 

How  tender  his  voice  now!  borrowing  pathos  not 
from  art,  but  from  the  narrative  itself.  A  voice  full  of 
tears.  And  do  not  his  eyes  answer  the  fading  sunlight 
with  a  dewy  shimmer? 

He  was  right,  she  thought,  when  he  said  she  knew 
not  the  beauties  of  this  little  book.  Not  a  month  ago, 
and  she  had  dozed  under  this  very  passage. 

And  now  there  rose  before  her — he  read  on  but  she 
31* 


H66  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

heard  him  not  (so  the  trooping  fancies  evoked  by  music 
have  power  to  dull  the  mere  outward  ear)— rose  before 
her  soul  a  vision  of  ineffable  softness, — a  vision  of  one 
with  a  face  full  of  sorrow,  but  a  sun-lit  head ;  and  he 
beckoned  to  little  children,  and  they  followed  him ;  and 
as  he  passed,  the  burdens  of  the  heavy-laden  grew 
lighter,  and  the  weary  smiled  again  and  forgot  their 
weariness,  and  rose  and  followed,  they  too.  And  as 
he  passed  (he  read  on  but  she  heeded  not) — as  he 
passed  along  his  stony  path,  violets  seemed  to  spring 
from  beneath  his  feet, — violets  shedding  perfume.  And 
along  the  roadside  lilies  nodded.  And  sinners  beat 
their  breasts,  but  lifted  up  their  hearts.  And  one  of 
her  own  sex  followed, — one  who  had  loved  much ;  and 
as  she  followed  she  dried  her  tears  with  her  sunny 
hair — 

«  GENERATION  OF  VIPERS !" 

She  started  from  her  seat  and  clutched  the  gunwale 
of  the  boat.  As  he  towered  above  her,  his  nostrils 
breathed  defiance,  his  white  teeth  glittered  with  scorn, 
his  dark  eyes  gleamed,  his  whole  figure  was  eloquent 
with  indignation.  'Twas  but  a  bunch  of  dry  sea-weed 
that  he  held  aloft,  crushed  in  his  right  hand ;  but  to 
her  he  seemed  to  brandish  the  serpent-thongs  of  Tisiph- 
one ;  and  the  milksop  ideal  of  Raphael  and  the  rest 
vanished  from  her  mind.  In  its  stead  there  rose  before 
her  exalted  imagination  the  heroic  figure  of  a  valiant 
young  Jew.  He  stands  before  a  mob  that  thirsts  for 
his  blood.  Alone,  but  intrepid.  He  knows  full  well, 
O  Jerusalem,  that  thou  dost  stone  thy  prophets  (for 
what  land  doth  not?),  but  though  his  face  be  pale 
beneath  the  shadow  of  approaching  death,  his  brave 
spirit  is  undaunted.  He  is  willing  that  the  cup  shall 
pass  from  him ;  but,  being  such  as  he  is,  he  may  turn 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left.  If  he  must  drain 
it,  then  be  it  so.  His  mission  is  to  live  for  man — and, 
if  need  be,  to  die  for  him. 

But  is  this  the  vision  of  a  manlike  God  ?  Is  it  not 
rather  that  of  a  godlike  man  ? 

The  Argo  stands  firm  in  its  bed  of  shining  sand;  but 
tempest-tossed  is  the  soul  of  the  young  girl  who  sits 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  367 

therein,  straining  her  eager  eyes  for  a  sight  of  land. 
Every  now  and  then  a  glorious  mirage  seems  to  spring 
into  the  air,  gladdening,  for  a  moment,  the  darkening 
horizon,  and  then  to  fall  as  suddenly,  dispersed  by  a 
word. 

"  Yes,  Rousseau  was  right ;  Socrates  did  die  like  a 
philosopher,  but  Jesus  like  a  God  1" 

Mary  leaned  forward  and  held  her  breath. 

He  clasped  his  hands,  and  uplifting  his  face  that  was 
pale  with  emotion:  "My  God,"  cried  he,  in  a  voice 
that  made  her  shiver — "  my  God,  my  God,  why  hast 
tbou  forsaken  me?" 

The  mirage  vanished, — for  a  mere  tone  may  outline 
a  whole  system  of  theology.  That  cry,  as  he  gave  it, 
was  one  of  bitter  human  anguish.  In  her  lover's  eyes 
'twas  not  a  God  that  died,  but  a  man, — godlike,  but  a 
man. 

"With  that  cry"  (he  added),  "the  bitterest  that  ever 
broke  from  mortal  lips — " 

She  heard  but  heeded  not;  she  knew  more  than 
enough  already. 

"  With  that  cry  there  burst  the  grandest  heart  that 
ever  beat  for  mankind.  Who  can  wonder  that  sixty 
generations  of  men  have  worshipped  him  as  a  God !" 

Mary  rose,  and,  descending  from  the  Argo,  took  his 
arm.  She  needed  its  support. 

Just  before  reaching  the  piazza,  she  stopped  suddenly, 
and,  wheeling  in  front  of  him,  fixed  her  gaze  upon  hia 
face.  A  gaze  long,  wistful,  pitiful-tender.  As  though 
a  mother  learned  by  heart  the  features  of  her  boy  just 
going  forth  to  battle,  not  knowing  what  may  happen. 

She  tried  to  answer  the  smile  that  greeted  this  burst 
of  feminine  impulse  j  but  the  soulful  eyes  were  swim 
ming  with  tears. 

The  Pythia  was  a  woman — and  Cassandra — 


368  THE  STORY   OF  DON  MIFF. 


CHAPTEE  LVI. 

I  PICTURE  thee  to  my  fancy,  my  Ah  Yung  Whack, 
popping  thine  almond  eyes  out  of  all  almond  shape. 
No?  Then  thou  hast  not  read  my  last  chapter. 
Couldst  not?  Ah,  but  thou  must.  I  felt  that  it  would 
be  so  much  Choctaw  to  thee.  Still,  thou  must  read  it  ; 
for  in  that  chapter  I  strike  the  key-note  of  this,  my 
Symphonic  Monograph. 

I  know  it  is  Choctaw  to  thee ;  nay,  Comanche ;  but 
I  rejoice,  rather,  in  that ;  for  it  gives  me  a  pretext  for 
writing  an  entire  chapter  for  thine  enlightenment. 
Nor  exclusively  for  thine ;  for  I  would  make  matters 
clear  for  the  contemporary  reader,  who  will,  I  trust 
(or  else  alas  for  my  poor  publishers !), — who  will,  J  trust, 
outnumber  thee. 

This,  then,  is  my  case.  I  have  thrown  upon  my 
canvas  a  young  person  who  has  had  the  misfortune  to 
fall  in  love  with  a  man  of  whom  she  may  be  fairly  said 
to  know  nothing.  (Her  feminine  intuitions  cannot,  of 
course,  pass  muster  as  knowledge  with  us  Bushwhack 
ers  and  philosophers.)  And  this  young  person,  so  far 
as  is  made  to  appear,  is  anxious  to  know  but  one 
thing  in  regard  to  her  lover.  Had  she  been  a  good 
sensible  girl,  with  no  nonsense  about  her,  it  might 
have  been  supposed  that  she  would  have  been  curious 
to  know  whether  he  were  rich.  Then,  being  but  just 
turned  of  eighteen,  who  could  have  blamed  her  if  she 
had  wondered  whether  he  were  of  a  jealous  temper, 
and  likely  to  put  an  end  to  her  dancing  with  other 
men  ?  Again  ;  many  women  have  a  pardonable  ambi 
tion  to  shine  in  the  eyes  of  their  friends ;  and  was  he, 
if  rich,  generous  as  well  ?  And  was  she  likely  to  dazzle 
Alice  with  her  diamonds,  perhaps,  or  .beam  upon  Lucy 
from  a  handsome  equipage?  He  had  shown,  too, some 
iondness  for  field  sports,  and  would  he — ah,  would  he 
(harrowing  thought  to  every'truly  feminine  bosom) — 
would  he  bring  her  into  the  country,  there  to  drag  out 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  369 

a  weary,  dreary  life,  and  shoppinglessly  vegetate? 
Nay,  was  this  splendid  ci'eature  (as  is  too  often  the 
case  with  splendid  creatures),  was  he,  perhaps,  a  slave 
to  creature  comforts?  Would  he  be  an  exacting  critic 
of  her  housekeeping?  Might  not  muddy  coffee  exacer 
bate  even  an  heroic  soul  ?  Could  it  be  that  a  roast  not 
done  to  a  turn  might  corrugate  that  admirable  brow  ? 

No;  we  have  not  painted  her  as  anxious  in  respect 
to  any  of  these  things.  Yet  I  beg  the  reader  will  not 
accuse  me  of  drawing  a  monstrosity  of  a  girl,  one  desti 
tute  of  the  common  instincts  of  her  sex.  Far  from  it. 
She,  very  likely,  trusting  implicitly  to  her  intuitions  (as 
women  will),  felt  too  confident  as  to  these  possibilities 
of  her  future  to  give  them  a  second  thought.  Besides, 
was  she  not  desperately  in  love?  And  we  all  know 
(or,  at  least,  I  believe,  which  amounts  to  the  same 
thing,  so  far  as  this  book  is  concerned)  that  there  are 
women  who,  if  but  deeply  enamoured,  would  scorn 
such  thoughts,  as  a  degradation  to  true  love.  At  any 
rate,  the  fact  was  as  I  have  stated  it.  Mary,  while 
seemingly  careless  (though  that  may  have  been  due  to 
confidence)  as  to  the  mere  details  of  her  destiny  in  this 
world,  was  morbidly  solicitous  touching  her  lover's 
views  as  to  the  next. 

Laugh  not,  gentle  reader.  True,  I  am  a  humoristic 
Bushwhacker  by  trade;  but  I  would  not  have  you 
smile  out  of  order.  And  as  for  thee,  my  great-to-the- 
tenth-power-grandson,  brush  the  wrinkles  from  thy 
yellow  brow,  lest  thou  crack,  not  this  nut,  but  thine 
addled  pate,  instead. 

Know,  then,  all  men  (and  by  all  men  I  mean,  ot 
course,  all  women  and  clergymen,  who,  alone,  in  these 
busy  days,have  leisure  to  read  symphonic  monographs) — • 

Know,  all  women  and  clergymen,  of  this  and  more 
or  less  future  generations,  that  the  story  I  am  telling 
has  very  narrow  limitations,  as  well  in  time  as  in 
space.  It  is  of  Virginia*  alone  that  I  am  writing.  Of 
Virginia  not  in  the  fourth  quarter,  but  Virginia  in  the 
beginning  of  the  second  half  of  the'  nineteenth  century. 

*  Conspicuously  inexact;  but  the  reader  must  judge  for  herself. — Ed. 
V 


370  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

Strolling  through  this  narrow  field,  at  this  particular 
harvest-time,  I  have  selected  three  sheaves  wherewith 
to  fashion  such  rural  picture  as  my  hand  should  have 
cunning  to  form. 

Lucy,  I  chose,  originally,  as  symbolizing  the  purity 
and  simplicity  of  the  womanhood  of  our  old  Virginia 
life.  But  of  her  I  am  conscious  that  I  have  given  the 
merest  outline;  and  I  find  that  I  cannot  fill  in  the 
picture  adequately,  and  at  the  same  time  maintain  the 
rigidly  monographic  type  of  my  work.  '  Let  her  stand, 
therefore,  just  outside  of  our  central  group  (where  the 
full  light  falls),  illumining  the  half-shadow  with  her 
gentle,  St.  Cecilia  look.  Is  that  a  smile  that  lights  her 
eye,  or  is  it  the  glancing  of  a  tear  ? 

Our  Alice  illustrates  for  us,  as  I  have  said  elsewhere, 
the  careless  freedom  of  those  old  days,  and  shows  how 
our  democratic-aristocratic  Virginia  girls  could  be  gay 
•without  being  indiscreet,  joyous  yet  not  loud,  uncon 
ventional  yet  full  of  real  dignity ;  how,  in  the  hundreds 
of  years  that  separate  them  from  the  mother-country, 
they  have  shaken  off  English  stiffness,  while  clinging 
fast  to  English  love  of  liberty.  But  she  is  fully  capable 
of  speaking  for  herself;  and  wo  pass  on  to  Mary  Rolfe. 

The  reader  has  already,  I  hope,  a  tolerably  clear  con 
ception  of  this  young  person.  Stature  below  the  aver 
age,  eyes  full  of  soul,  a  manner  painfully  shy  with 
strangers,  childlike  and  confiding  with  intimates;  a 
mind  admirably  stored,  considering  her  years,  with  all 
that  can  adorn ;  often  silent,  and  preferring  to  hear 
rather  than  to  be  heard,  but  murmuring,  when,  forget 
ting  her  reserve,  she  does  speak,  like  a  brook,  and  in  a 
voice  of  such  surpassing  sweetness  that  one  could  have 
•wished  that,  like  the  brook,  she  would  go  on  forever. 
Eloquent  rather  than  witty.  And  I  fear  few  would 
have  called  her  wise.  For  the  rest,  full  of  high  imagin 
ings,  and  a  born  hero-worshipper. 

Such  was  Mary  Kolfe  in  herself;  and  to  know  her  as 
such  has  sufficed  for  the  reader,  so  far.  But  a  crisis  is 
approaching  in  Mary's  life ;  and  to  foretell  how  people 
are  going  to  act  in  crises,  it  is  not  enough  to  know 
what  they  are  in  themselves,  merely.  What  they  are 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  371 

is  something;  the  where  and  the  when  are  more.  Do 
you  see  that  pleasant,  genial-looking  man  walking  along 
the  streets  of  a  Southern  city?  Could  anything  be 
gentler  than  his  look,  kinder  than  his  eye?  Yet  it 
was  but  the  other  day  that  he  went  out,  deliberately, 
to  a  secluded  spot  called  the  Field  of  Honor,  and  sent 
a  ball  through  the  person  of  an  excellent  gentleman, 
who  at  the  same  time  was  addressing  a  bullet  to  his 
care.  These  worthy  persons  were  no  worse  than  other 
people  (true,  they  were  editors),  but  they  lived  in  the 
South.  That  was  the  trouble.  In  the  North  the  same 
man  would  have  simply  said,  you're  another,  and  called 
the  account  square.  And  I,  for  one,  applaud  the  North, 
and  say  she  is  right  and  the  South  wrong. 

No ;  if  you  would  forecast  the  actions  of  men,  you 
must  be  acquainted  with  their  environment,  as  Herbert 
Spencer  would  call  it.  To  use  an  illustration  that  this 
leader  of  modern  scientific  thought  would  not  object 
to ;  you  strike  that  white  ball  with  your  cue.  The 
table  being  smooth,  it  would  seem  that  it  would  main 
tain  its  initial  direction  till  the  initial  force  was  ex 
hausted,  or  at  least  till  it  struck  the  opposite  cushion  ; 
but,  lo !  it  strikes  a  light  red  ball  that  lies  in  its  path, 
and  off  it  flies  at  a  tangent.  If  Mr.  Spencer  held  the 
cue  and  were  conducting  the  experiment  in  person,  our 
illustration  would  now  be  at  an  end  (for  I  am  told  that 
he  is  the  worst  billiard-player  in  all  England);  but  let 
us  suppose  that  that  cue-thrust  was  delivered  by  one 
of  those  solid-headed  young  men  (in  shirt-sleeves)  who 
delight  in  what  they  humorously  call  the  scientific  game. 
The  white  strikes  the  light  red  and  darts  away ;  but 
click !  and  off  it  speeds  along  a  different  track.  It  has 
carromed  on  the  dark  red. 

And  are  we  not,  we  mortals,  so  many  billiard-balls, 
launched  forth  upon  our  little  arena  by  we  know  not 
what  force,  and  rolling  we  know  not  whither?  It  may 
be  a  little  wider  or  a  trifle  narrower,  perhaps,  the  stage 
on  which  we  play  our  several  parts  ;  but  all  the  same, 
around  it  rise  the  unscalable  barriei-s  of  human  life,  the 
adamantine  limitations  of  human  endeavor.  And  we, 
embracing  within  our  little  selves  (as  did  the  tusk 


372  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

whence  that  ball  was  cut)  countless  conflicting  forces,  the 
inextricably  intermingled  traits,  that  is,  of  numberless 
ancestors, — fashioned,  too,  by  the  loving  hands  of  father, 
mother,  brother,  sister,  teacher;  we  spin  forth  on  the 
journey  of  life.  And  a  seemly  roll  of  it  we  may  have, 
and  a  safe,  perhaps,  if  we  be  but  smooth  and  round 
and  mediocre  (not  bulging  on  this  side,  say,  with 
big  thoughts,  or  jagged  on  that  with  untamable  con 
science).  There  stands  the  goal,  and  making  for  it, 
merrily  we  spin  forth, — but,  click!  click!  and  where  are 
we  ?  Nay,  may  not  a  pinch  of  cigar-ashes  wrest  victory 
from  an  expert?  And  hath  not,  sometime,  a  mere 
rumpled  thread  sufficed  to  bring  triumph  to  a  tyro? 
Surely  it  is  not  a  great  matter  to  stoop  and  pick  up  a 
pin;  but  was  it  not  enough,  once,  as  we  are  told,  to 
make  a  beggar  a  millionaire?  And  who  shall  say  that  the 
merest  casual  fly,  alighting  on  the  intent  nose  of  some 
gunner  in  beleaguered  Toulon,  might  not  have  so 
warped  the  parabola  of  a  shell  as  to  have  rendered 
needless  the  slaughter  of  Waterloo  ? 

I  have  made  life  a  parallelogram,  I  see,  though  it  is 
notoriously  a  circle ;  and  I  have  symbolized  failure  in 
life  by  carroming  on  the  light  and  dark  reds ;  whereas, 
as  we  all  know,  that  is  success  in  billiards.  But,  my 
Ah  Yung  Whack,  is  it  not  night  in  China  when  it  ia 
day  with  us  ?  And  does  not  white  raiment  signify  grief 
there?  And  do  they  not  take  off  their  shoes  instead 
of  their  hats  when  calling  on  a  friend,  and  shake  their 
own  hands  rather  than  the  other  fellow's  ?  We  will  let 
the  illustration  stand,  my  boy,  for  your  sake  ;  for,  in 
the  new  Flowery  Kingdom  which  is  coming,  all  things 
will  be  changed.  In  that  day,  when  the  wielder  of  the 
cue  shall  also  wear  one  (spell  it  how  he  will),  the  game 
will  bo  to  miss  rather  than  to  hit ;  so  that  what  seemed, 
at  the  first  blush,  to  be  due  to  the  buck-jumping  of  a 
mustang  Pegasus,  turns  out  to  be,  in  reality,  the  pro 
phetic  vision  of  a  philosophic  Bushwhacker. 

But  the  environment  of  Mary? 

And  now,  at  last,  it  has  come, — that  chapter  which  I 
have  so  long  dreaded, — my  chapter  on  Virginia  theology. 

"  Dearest  Alice,  could  you  not  manage  it  for  me  ?" 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  373 

A  backward  toss  in  her  rocking-chair,  one  ejacula- 
tory  clapping  together  of  her  plump  hands,  one  shout 
of  laughing  amazement  was  her  answer. 

"  I  ?"  said  Charley.  "You  must  have  forgotten  that 
I  am  hard  at  work  on  that  Essay  on  Military  Glory 
which  you  say  you  will  shortly  need." 


CHAPTEK  LVIL 

HERE  I  am,  then,  since  it  must  be. 

Every  one  has  heard  the  story  of  the  Frenchman 
who,  after  a  tour  through  America  (or  was  it  Eng 
land  ?),  had  but  this  to  say  of  us :  that  we  were  a 
people  with  thirty  religions  and  but  a  single  sauce.  1 
hardly  think  that  we  in  Virginia,  at  least  at  the  period 
of  this  story,  were  quite  so  rich  in  religions  as  this. 
Yery  likely,  some  of  the  sects  discovered  by  our  observ 
ant  G-aul  had  no  representatives  in  the  Old  Dominion. 
At  any  rate,  I,  after  diligent  inquiry  in  many  quarters, 
have  not  been  able  to  unearth  more  than  fifteen  dis 
tinct  varieties.  I  did  not  count,  I  admit,  a  certain  flock 
of  migratory  Mormons  that  I  once  encountered  on  the 
wing ;  just  as,  I  presume,  a  naturalist  would  hardly 
class  the  Canada  goose  among  Virginia  birds,  from  the 
mere  fact  that  they  refresh  themselves,  in  the  spring 
of  the  year,  in  our  wheat-fields.  Nor  did  I  think  that 
a  man  and  his  wife  and  a  boy  whom  I  once  knew, 
could  fairly  claim  to  be  numbered  as  a  sect  merely 
because,  as  their  fellow-villagers  asserted,  they  pro 
fessed  to  believe  something  that  nobody  could  under 
stand.  Then  I  am  afraid  that  even  the  very  sects 
themselves  would  insist  on  my  leaving  out  the  Bush 
whackers, — slack-twisted  Christians  like  myself,  that  is, 
who  can't  abide  uniforms,  and  find  it  hot  marching  in 
ranks,  and  irksome  to  keep  step ;  though  we  do  cover 
the  flanks  of  the  main  column,  and,  while  we  don't 
attack  in  line,  yet  keep  up  a  rattling  fire  upon  such 
stray  sinners  as  we  find  prowling  about. 

32 


374  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

And  so  forth,  and  so  forth. 

Still  (for  I  would  not  incur  the  suspicion  of  niggard, 
liness),  it  is  very  possible  that,  had  I  searched  with 
greater  diligence,  I  should  have  found  more  than  fifteen. 
We  will  allow,  then,  that,  at  the  period  which  we  are 
sketching,  there  were,  say,  a  dozen  and  a  half  religions 
in  Virginia. 

And  when  I  say  religions,  I  have  not  in  ray  mind  a 
milk-and-water,  namby-pamby,  good -enough -for -me 
kind  of  creed,  but  one  of  your  up-and-down,  robustious, 
straight-from-the-shoulder  dogmas,  that  could  ship  off 
entire  churchfuls  of  heterodoxers  to — (but  since  the 
Revised  Edition  the  word  is  scarcely  parliamentaiy) 
without  a  wry  face.  Thither  our  Virginia  Catholics 
used  to  despatch  all  our  Protestants,  to  a  man  ;  but, 
inasmuch  as  their  numbers  were  few  (and,  strictly 
speaking,  the  thing  was,  perhaps,  contrary  to  the  Con 
stitution  of  the  United  States),  they  did  it  all  very 
decently  and  quietly;  sending  them  off  by  night-train, 
as  it  were,  and  making  no  loud  mention  of  the  fact. 

Not  so  their  opponents.  Greatly  outnumbering  the 
followers  of  the  Scarlet  Woman  of  Babylon,  they  rat 
tled  them  off  in  broad  daylight,  by  the  Through  Mail, 
making  no  bones  of  naming  the  terminus  of  the  road. 
Ah,  but  it  was  thorough  work  on  both  sides  I 

Ole  Virginny  nebber  tire ! 

But  there  was  one  awkward  thing  about  the  business : 
if  they  kept  this  thing  up,  not  a  solitary  Virginian 
would  ever  reach  heaven.  That  thought  gave  me 
pause,  one  day;  and  ever  since  I  have  hoped  that  some 
body  had  made  a  mistake,  somehow.  At  any  rate,  said 
I  to  myself,  in  my  slack-twisted,  Bushwhackerish  way, 
the  Jews  will  get  away  ;  and  that  will  be  a  comfort, 
considering  what  an  Unrevised  Edition  of  a  time  they 
have  had  for  these  two  thousand  years. 

But  as  a  guerilla,  as  a  free  lance,  unattached  and  un- 
uniformed,  and  falling  in,  as  occasion  served,  now  with 
one  regiment  and  now  with  another,  I  found  that  things 
were  even  worse  than  I  have  represented  them.  You 
see  they  didn't  mind  me,  and  so  talked  very  freely  in 
my  presence;  and  I  was  shocked  to  find  that  these 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  375 

various  companies  and  battalions  privately  nourished  a 
keener  animosity  one  against  the  other  than  towards 
the  common  enemy,  Ah  Sin.  If  each  could  have  heard 
what  the  others  said  of  them  (as  I  did),  and  where  they 
sent  them !  I  came  to  the  conclusion,  at  last,  that  there 
was  not  the  shadow  of  a  chance  for  any  Virginia 
Protestant.  There  were  not  enough  Catholics  to  keep 
them  busy ;  they  fell  upon  one  another,  and  so  many 
cars  did  they  couple  on  to  the  Through  Mail  (ole  Vir- 
ginny  nebber  tire!)  that  it  became  a  most  Unlimited 
Express,  choke-full  of  Virginia  gentlemen, — Virginia 
gentlemen  who  had  erred  in  the  interpretation  of  a 
phrase  or  so,  or,  it  may  be,  of  a  word  merely,  of  Holy 
Writ. 

Ole  Virginny  nebber  tire ! 

I  say  Virginia  gentlemen  advisedly. 

Environments  may  have  their  environments  (just  as 
fleas  have  other  fleas  to  bite  'em,  and  so  we  go  ad  in- 
finitum'),  and,  thorough-going  as  was  our  theology,  it 
had  to  succumb  in  the  presence  of  our  chivalry  towards 
the  sex ;  for  throughout  all  our  borders  there  lived  not 
a  man,  lay  or  clerical,  who  would  not  have  scorned  to 
send  a  woman  to  the  bottomless  pit. 

But  as  for  the  Virginia  gentlemen,  we  shovelled  them 
all  in  with  an  industry  (ole  Virginny  nebber  tire  !)  and 
an  undoubting  zeal  that  were  above  all  praise. 

That's  the  reason  I  always  did  love  a  Virginian ;  he 
won't  stand  any  nonsense.  "  Do  you  believe  that  a 
prodigious  majority  of  mankind  were  elected  unto 
damnation,  ages  before  they  were  born  ?  No?"  Swish! 
and  that  is  the  end  of  you  !  Another:  "  And  so  you  say 
that  baptizo  means  baptize,  do  you?" — "Why,  don't  the 
dictionaries  and  all  the  Greek  profess — "  budjum!  and 
where  are  you  now  ? 

For,  in  matters  of  this  kind,  we  Virginians  of  that 
day,  if  you  would  agree  with  us,  would  agree  with  you  ; 
but— if  not — you  might  go — your  way, — for  the  King 
James  version  obtained  in  those  times. 

Ah,  but  we  were  out-and-outers  in  those  good  old 
days! 

Ole  Virginny  nebber  tire  ! 


376  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFjf. 

Strange!  for  time  was  when  things  were  very  differ 
ent  in  the  Old  Dominion.  Our  ancestors  had  brought 
over  with  them  the  spirit  of  the  merrie  old  England  of 
hundreds  of  years  ago;  and  merry  men  were  they,  too, 
for  a  long  time  after  they  landed  on  these  fair  shores. 

And,  after  all,  what  was  the  harm?  for  do  not 
philosophers  tell  us  that  a  people's  conception  of  the 
Deity  is  but  the  reflex  of  the  powers  of  nature  (be  they 
kindly  or  hostile)  by  which  they  are  surrounded  ?  And 
was  not  this  a  fair  land  ?  and  if  their  sun  was  bright, 
but  not  too  fierce,  and  their  wheat-fields  nodded  to  soft 
breezes,  but  knew  not  the  hurricane,  and  if  their  snows 
were  a  fairy  mantle  for  mother-earth,  rather  than  a 
shroud,  and  Jack  Frost  spread,  over  pond  and  creek,  ice 
just  thick  enough  to  store  against  what  time  the  mint 
— the  jolly  jolly  mint — should  sprout, — if  all  nature 
smiled,  why  should  these  merry  Norman-English  pull 
long  faces?  Nor  did  they,  but  laughed  and  danced, 
bless  their  jovial  souls ! 

But  a  time  came  when  merrie  England  was  merry 
no  longer. 

Somebody  had  invented  a  new  religion. 

It  floated  down  upon  her,  a  dense  fog,  impenetrable 
to  the  mild  radiance  of  the  star  of  Bethlehem.  Floated 
across  the  Atlantic,  and  darkened  our  life,  too.  With 
us,  as  well,  laughter  became  frivolity,  and  dancing 
blasphemous.  There  are  rifts  in  the  fog  now,  and 
here  and  there  the  sun  is  bursting  through  ;  but  at  the 
period  of  our  story  the  shadow  was  unbroken.  There 
was  laughter,  it  is  true.  Do  not  the  condemned  often 
make  merry  in  their  cells?  and  young  people  will 
dance, — just  as  lambs  frisk,  even  upon  a  bed  of  mint — 
heedless, — for  'tis  their  nature  to.  But  they  laughed 
and  danced  under  a  shadow, — the  shadow  of  the  next 
world.  That  world,  alone,  was  real, — so  we  thought, 
— while  this,  from  Greenland's  icy  mountains  to  India's 
coral  strand,  was  (though  it  seemed  so  solid)  but  a  fleet 
ing  show,  for  man's  illusion  given. 

And  of  this  theology,  which  spread,  like  a  black  pall, 
over  the  land,  this  was  the  central  conception  ;  and  I 
give  it  for  the  reason  that  you  will  not  find  it  laid  down 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  377 

in  the  books,  or  in  any  single  discourse.  It  is  the 
epitome  of  the  thousands  upon  thousands  of  sermons 
which  I  (not  that  I  would  boast)  have  heard  in  my  day. 
Listen ;  for  this  was  the  atmosphere  that  our  Mary 
breathed  : 

The  world  is  the  battle-ground  of  two  mighty  beings, 
the  Spirit  of  Good  and  the  Spirit  of  Evil.  These  two, 
from  the  first  appearance  of  man  on  earth,  have  un 
ceasingly  battled  together,  the  one  to  save  him,  the 
other  to  destroy.  To  save  mankind — to  destroy  man 
kind — that  has  been  the  sole  contention  these  thousands 
of  years.  Incidentally,  of  course  (for  such  is  war),  the 
Evil  Spirit  has,  beyond  the  harm  done  the  human 
family,  wrought  immense  damage  to  earth's  fauna  and 
flora  (as  the  innumerable  imperfections  of  nature 
testify),  but  man,  alone,  has  been  the  objective  point  of 
all  his  strategy ;  and  with  every  new  soul  that  comes 
into  the  world  the  conflict  is  renewed. 

And  perhaps  I  am  wrong, — for  there  are  those  who 
maintain  that  I  have  a  bee  in  my  theological  bonnet, — 
but,  were  I  a  preacher,  I  should  stand  up  for  my  side. 
I  should  not  go  about  proclaiming  it  from  the  house 
tops  that  in  the  vast  majority  of  these  struggles  the 
good  spirit  is  worsted  ;  nor  glory  in  announcing  to  the 
world  that  Satan  held  the  field,  and  that  the  only  hope 
was  that  a  few  of  us  poor  captives  might  elude  his 
vigilance  and  escape.  Captives!  They  told  us  that 
we  were  his  when  we  were  born ! 

Is  there  any  harm  in  saying  that  to  a  mere  Bush 
whacker  (who  has  not  had  the  privilege  of  passing 
through  a  theological  seminary)  it  seems  that  we  have 
hardly  a  fair  chance?  It  were  better  we  were  born 
orphans!  Better  that  than  to  be  the  children  of  Sin 
and  Satan,  as  those  who  know  tell  me  we  are, — though 
I  will  say  that  I  cannot  help  hoping  that  there  is  some 
mistake  about  it. 

But  if  it  be,  indeed,  too  true, — if  it  be  a  fact  that  all 
the  poor  souls  that  flit  darkly,  for  a  season,  about  this 
little  ball  of  earth,  are,  in  very  deed,  condemned  before 
they  are  born,  may  we  not  hope  that  it  is  otherwise  in 
Venus,  for  example,  or  Mars?  I,  at  least,  sometimes, 

32* 


378  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

overborne  by  the  immense  tragedy  of  human  life,  steal 
forth  alone  into  the  night;  and  lifting  my  weary  eyes 
to  the  blue  spangled  dome  above,  try  to  drown  the 
darkness  here  in  the  light  I  see  shining  there;  and  oft- 
times  I  find  myself  wondering  whether  they  be  indeed 
as  bright  as  they  seem, — find  myself  praying,  even, 
that  it  may  be  so. 

For  indeed  it  were  pitiful,  were  all  those  worlds  such 
as  ours ! 

And  sometimes  I  have  felt,  as  I  swept,  with  brim 
ming  eyes,  constellation  after  constellation,  and  galaxy 
after  galaxy,  that  I  could  bear  up  with  a  braver  heart 
could  I  but  know  that  there  was,  wandering  some 
where  in  the  immensity  of  space,  one  little  planet,  at 
least,  upon  which  the  Prince  of  Darkness  had  not  set 
his  foot, — one  little  world  in  which  poverty  and  hunger 
and  thirst,  and  toil  and  failure,  and  blood  and  tears, 
and  disease  and  eternal  farewells  were  unknown, — one 
world  where  a  mother  could  smile  back  upon  her  babe, 
as  it  lay  kicking  and  crowing  in  her  lap,  and  laughing 
in  her  face,  and  not  feel  that  the  Grip  of  Hell  was  upon 
its  throat. 

Alice  buried  her  face  in  her  hands ;  but  Charley  sat 
bolt  upright  in  his  seat. 

For  such  was  our  creed  in  those  days.  If  any  one 
shall  say  that  Virginians  do  not  believe  that  now,  I 
shall  not  argue  the  point.  It  was  notoriously  orthodox 
then  to  hold  that  every  infant  came  into  the  world  under 
sentence.  Not  under  sentence  to  be  hanged  by  the 
neck,  as  murderers  are — 

Alice  shivered.  Charley  lifted  his  hand.  I  ceased 
reading. 


SYMPHONY  OF  LIFE. 
MOVEMENT  III. 


ALLEGRO    MOLTO. 


CHAPTEE  LYIII. 

IT  must,  in  former  days,  before  we  Christianized  them 
(at  any  rate,  if  we  didn't  do  that,  quite,  we  did  what 
we  could ;  we  cut  their  throats  for  their  heathenism 
and  lands), — it  must  have  been  a  comfort  to  an  old  In 
dian  brave  (before  the  Pale  Faces  had  taught  him  what 
was  meant  by  Peace  on  Earth)  when  his  stalwart  son, 
heir  to  his  prowess,  returned  to  the  parental  wigwam 
and  cast  into  his  veteran  lap  his  first  string  of  scalps. 
And  so,  in  our  day  (for  conditions  change,  not  man),  the 
youthful  sparkle  comes  back  to  a  mother's  eye,  and 
nascent  wrinkles  on  her  fading  cheek  become  twink 
ling  dimples  again,  when  her  blooming  daughter  re 
turns,  flushed  with  victory,  from  her  first  campaign. 
How  did  you  leave  your  uncle  and  your  aunt  ?  And 
I  hope  all  the  children  are  well  ?  And  so  you  have  had 
a  good  time  ?  Glorious  I  Well,  you  must  be  tired ; 
you  need  not  go  up-stairs;  come  into  my  room  and 
take  off  your  things. 

But  she  has  not  had  time  to  unbutton  her  left  glove 
before  her  mother  wants  to  know  all  about  the  scalps : 
how  many  and  whose. 

And  here  there  makes  its  appearance  a  seeming  dif 
ference  between  our  young  campaigner  and  the  brave 
I  have  mentioned.  He,  as  he  dances  around  the  camp- 
fire,  waving  in  one  hand  the  sinister  trophies  of  his 

379 


380  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

victory,  and  brandishing  his  tomahawk  in  the  other, 
proclaims,  not  without  ingenuous  yells,  what  a  sin 
gularly  Big  Injun  he  conceives  himself  to  be.  She, 
returning  from  the  war-path,  has  nothing  to  show; 
denies  everything  (as  she  laughingly  unties  her  bonnet- 
strings),  even  to  her  mother.  To  the  next-door  neigh 
bor,  who  runs  in  to  hear,  denies ;  but  smiles  mysteri 
ously.  Idle  tales.  Nonsense.  Not  a  word  of  truth 
in  it.  Pooh !  He  was  making  love  to  another  girl. 
But  in  the  end,  young  man,  your  scalp  is  nailed  above 
the  door  of  that  young  woman's  chamber,  where  all 
may  see, — nailed  up  with  laughing  protests  and  mys 
terious  smiles. 

Which  is  as  it  should  be.  There  are  ways  and  ways 
of  blowing  one's  little  trumpet — or  of  getting  it  blown. 
Conditions  change,  not  man.  The  vanity  of  Ajax  was 
not  greater  than  that  of  a  nineteenth  century  hero. 
Where,  pray,  was  the  son  of  Telamon  to  find  a  bottle 
of  champagne  to  crack  with  a  war-correspondent? 

Alice  and  Mary  managed  things  economically.  Each 
was  the  war-correspondent  of  the  other.  In  their  let 
ters  to  Kichmond,  during  these  notable  holidays,  Mary 
recounted  the  victories  of  the  enchantress,  while  Alice 
numbered  the  slain  of  Mary  and  her  soulful  eyes.  For 
be  it  understood,  fair  reader,  that  while  as  a  monog- 
raphist  I  have  indicated  one  scalp,  merely,  apiece,  in 
reality  a  pile  of  corses  lay  in  front  of  each  of  these 
lovely  archers.  They  were  Big  Injuns,  both.  But 
this  by  the  way. 

"  Which  one  of  them  all  did  you  like  best  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Rolfe. 

"  All !"  laughed  Mary,  letting  down  her  hair  as  she 
dropped  upon  a  lounge.  "How  many  were  there, 
pray  ?" 

"  Alice  wrote  me  that — " 

"  Oh,  she's  been  telling  tales,  has  she?  And  you  be 
lieved  all  she  wrote  ?" 


*        *         *        *          *         ***** 
"Oh,  yes,  I  knew  his  father,  when  I  was  a  girl,  and 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  881 

I  don't  wonder  at  the  son's  being  stupid,  as  you  say. 
He  could  talk  of  nothing  but  horses,  I  remember.  By 
the  way,  speaking  of  horses,  what  has  become  of  that 
poor  Mr.  Smith  who  was  so  badly  hurt  last  October?" 

"  He  is  still  at  Elmington,  I  believe ;  that  is — yes,  of 
course  he  is  there.  I  mean  we  left  him  there." 

"  You  believe  /"  laughed  Mrs.  Rolfe.  "  Upon  my 
word,"  added  she,  "  that  is  a  summary  way  of  dispos 
ing  of  a  young  man.  He  must  be  a  nonentity  indeed. 
I  often  wondered  that  you  never  mentioned  him  in 
your  letters.  Alice,  on  the  contrary,  could  write  of  no 
one  else.  It  was  the  Don  did  this  and  the  Don  said 
that." 

"  Her  beloved  Charley  and  Mr.  Smith  are  close 
friends." 

"  Oh,  I  see ;  but  I  don't  understand  how  it  was  that 
Alice  seemed  to  take  such  a  lively  interest  in  'the 
Don,'  as  she  calls  him,  while  you  can  scarcely  remem 
ber  that  he  is  still  at  Elmington.  She  never  wrote  a 
letter  without  singing  his  praises." 

"  As  I  said  just  now, '  the  Don'  has  the  good  taste  to 
admire  Mr.  Frobisher." 

"Ah,  that  accounts  for  Alice's  liking  'the  Don.'  Am 
I  to  suppose"  (something  in  Mary's  manner  made  her 
mother  feel  sure  that  she  was  on  the  right  track) — 
"  am  I  to  suppose,  then,  that  you  are  interested  in 
some  one  whom  the  Don  has  not  the  good  taste  to 
admire?" 

"  You  are  a  marvellous  guesser,  to  be  sure,"  cried 
Mary,  with  a  bi-ight  laugh,  and  springing  from  the 
lounge  and  into  her  mother's  lap. 

"Ah,  I  have  hit  the  nail  on  the  head,  have  I?"  asked 
Mrs.  Rolfe,  with  a  pleased  look  of  conscious  sagacity. 

"What  a  subtle  brain  is  here!"  continued  Mary, 
smoothing  back  the  white  hairs  from  her  mother's 
forehead,  and  gazing  tenderly  into  her  loving  eyes. 

"And  so  you  have  been  hiding  something  from  your 
poor  old  mother?  But  you  are  going  to  tell  her  now, 
aren't  you  ?"  added  she,  coaxingly.  "  Who  is  this  per 
son  in  whom  you  are  interested  ?" 

"Mary  Eolfe!" 


382  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"Yourself?  Ah,  I  see.  Mr.  Smith  does  not  like 
you,  and  therefore  you  do  not  fancy  Mr.  Smith.  Am  I 
right?" 

"  Not  entirely." 

"  Oho  I  Then  he  is  another  of  those  upon  whom  you 
have  found  it  impossible  to  smile.  Well,  I  cannot 
blame  him,  poor  fellow."  And  she  kissed  her  daugh 
ter's  forehead.  "  The  idea  of  your  having  never — but 
why  did  Alice  never  allude  to  this  affair  ?  She  gave 
me  an  account  of  all  the  others." 

"  I  can't  say,"  replied  Mary,  leaving  her  mother's 
lap  for  the  lounge. 

"  So  you  did  not  fancy  him.  Of  course  not,  of  course 
not.  He  is  a  handsome  fellow, — very;  but  really,  I 
cannot  see  how  he  could  have  had  the  hardihood  to 
make  love  to  you  while  maintaining  bis  incognito,  as 
Alice  writes  that  .he  still  does." 

"Hardihood  in  making  love  is  just  what  some  girls 
would  like." 

"  Of  course, — some  girls ;  but  not  a  girl  brought  up 
as  you  have  been.  Did  he  make  no  apology  ?  Yes  ? 
"Well,  that  was  to  his  honor.  He  is  a  gentleman,  there 
can  be  no  doubt  about  that.  And  you  ?" 

Mary  was  lying  at  full  length  upon  the  lounge.  "  I 
forgave  him,"  said  she,  averting  her  face. 

"Ah,  we  can't  help  that,  my  daughter.  A  woman 
would  not  be  a  woman  unless" — and  reminiscent  lights 
and  shadows  flitted  across  her  face — "  unless  she  kept 
a  soft  place  in  her  heart  for  every  man  who  ever  loved 
her.  But  forgiveness  and  love  are  different  parts  of 
speech." 

No  answer. 

"  To  pardon,  I  say,  and  to  love,  are  different  things," 
repeated  she ;  and  her  heart  began  to  throb,  she  hardly 
knew  why. 

"  Sometimes,"  said  Mary,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  383 


CHAPTEK  LIX. 

IT  was  not  many  minutes  after  this  before  Mrs.  Eolfe 
found  herself  across  the  street  and  closeted  with  Alice. 
"  I  am  too  tired  and  nervous  to  talk  now,"  Mary  had 
said ;  "  wait  till  to-morrow ;  or,  if  you  are  very  im 
patient,  ask  Alice  to  tell  you.  She  knows  all." 

"  My  dear  Alice,"  asked  Mrs.  Eolfe,  for  the  twentieth 
time,  at  the  close  of  a  two-hours'  investigation,  "who  is 
this  Mr.  Don  or  Smith?  "Who  is  his  father?  Who  is 
his  mother?  How  am  I  to  know  that  my  daughter  is 
not  interested  in  an  adventurer  or  an  escaped  lunatic?" 

Alice  did  her  best  to  reassure  Mrs.  Rolfe  on  this  point ; 
adding,  with  a  becoming  little  blush,  that  she  did  not 
rely  upon  her  own  judgment,  solely, — that  e-v-e-r-y- 
b-o-d-y  was  sure  that  the  Don  was  all  that  he  should 
be. 

"E-v-e-r-y-b-o-d-y!  Then  why  don't  you  take  him 
yourself?  I  suppose  this  same  e-v-e-r-y-b-o-d-y  ob 
jected  !" 

"Oh!" 

That  was  all  that  this  whilom  merry  babbler  could 
say.  Her  chin  (just  as  though  it  thought  itself  the 
most  highly  improper  little  chin  in  the  world)  tried  to 
hide  between  her  shoulder  and  her  throat,  nestling 
down  somewhere.  In  those  days  we  thought  it  was 
becoming, — that  sudden  rush  of  roses. to  a  young  girl's 
cheek.  Now  she  will  look  you  straight  in  the  face, 
and  tell  you  without  blinking  that  next  spring  she  is  to 
marry  a  man  weighing  (just  as  likely  as  not)  two  hun 
dred  pounds.  It  is  straightforward,  and  manly,  and 
"good  form," — but  some  of  us  can't  forget  the  old  way, 
and  like  it  still. 

"  I  must  confess,  Alice,  that  I  can  make  nothing  of 
the  whole  business.  You  tell  me  that  Mary's  suitor  is 
entirely  devoted  to  her,  and  that  every  one  has  the 
highest  respect  for  him.  His  incognito  need  not  trouble 
me,  you  say,  since  its  removal  is  only  delayed, — and 


384  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

delayed,  too,  through  some  romantic  whim  or  other  of 
Mary  herself.  But  there  is  one  thing  which  nothing 
you  say  explains ;  that  everything  you  say  darkens  ; 
why  is  the  poor  child  so  wretched  ?" 

Alice  was  silent. 

"  Alice,"  continued  Mrs.  Eolfe,  placing  her  hand  af 
fectionately  on  the  young  girl's  shoulder,  "  have  you 
told  me  all?  It  is  Mary's  express  injunction  that  you 
do  so,  you  know." 

Alice  seemed  to  have  something  to  say,  but  hesitated. 

"  Ah,  I  see,"  cried  Mrs.  Eolfe,  jumping  to  a  conclu 
sion.  "  He  has  thrown  off  his  incognito,  and  there  was 
something  dreadful, — a  living  wife  in  a  lunatic  asylum 
—or—" 

Alice  smiled.  "  No,  it  is  nothing  of  that  kind.  To 
tell  you  the  truth,  it  is  all  nonsense.  Mary  is  making 
a  mountain  of  a  mole-hill." 

"  A  mountain  of  a  mole-hill  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"Well?" 

"  It  is  all  perfectly  absurd — " 

"  What  disturbs  the  poor  child, — tell  me?" 

"  Some  nonsensical  fears  as  to  his  religious  tenden 
cies." 

"  His  religious  tendencies  ?"  echoed  Mrs.  Eolfe,  puz 
zled.  Suddenly  light  seemed  to  break  upon  her.  "For 
heaven's  sake,  Alice,"  she  cried,  pale  with  anxiety, 
"  you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  he  is  a  Catholic !  Don't 
tell  me  that.  Tell  me  that  he  is  a — a — an  Atheist, — 
anything  but  a  Catholic!" 

"An  Atheist  rather  than  a  Catholic?"  said  Alice, 
raising  her  eyes  to  those  of  Mrs.  Eolfe  for  the  first  time 
for  several  minutes. 

"Most  assuredly;  a  thousand  times  rather.  Why, 
when  I  was  a  girl,  several  of  my  acquaintances  married 
young  men  who  were  pleased  to  consider  themselves 
sceptics, — it  was  rather  the  fashion  in  those  days, — 
but,  bless  you,  the  last  one  of  them  was  a  vestryman 
before  five  years  of  married  life  had  passed.  But  a 
Catholic !  Heaven  forbid !  One  of  two  things,  Alice, 
invariably  happens  to  a  Protestant  girl  who  marries  a 


THE  STORY    )F  DON  MIFF.  385 

Catholic.  Either,  halting  between  opposing  claims,, 
she  loses  all  interest  in  religion  itself,  or  else  she  goes 
over  to  the  enemy.  Oh,  Alice,  Alice,"  cried  she,  with 
sudden  vehemence,  "  do  not  tell  me  that  my  poor 
Mary  loves  a  Catholic !  Lost  to  me  in  this  world — 
and—" 

I  will  tell  you,  my  Ah  Yung  Whack,  what  Mrs. 
Eolfe  was  going  to  say  when  Alice  interrupted  her 
with  a  merry  laugh.  She  was  going  to  add,  "lost -in 
the  next." 

It  was,  indeed,  as  I  have  hinted  in  earlier  chapters 
of  this  work,  the  settled  conviction  of  the  Protestants 
of  Virginia,  at  that  day,  that  all  Catholics  were  as 
surely  destined  to  the  bottomless  pit  as  the  very 
heathen  who  had  never  so  much  as  heard  a  whisper  of 
the  Glad  Tidings.  (My  Catholic  friends  often  com 
plained  to  me  of  this  bigotry.  For  my  part,  I  hardly 
knew  whether  to  laugh  or  to  weep  when  I  remembered 
that  they  had  made  precisely  the  same  arrangements 
for  my  Protestant  acquaintance.) 

"  Why,  who  told  you  he  was  a  Catholic  ?" 

"  Heaven  be  praised !     Then  what  is  he,  pray  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  he  is  a  little  sceptical, — or — or — some 
thing." 

"And  is  that  all?  Sceptical  or  something !  Capital, 
Alice!"  cried  she,  with  a  bright  laugh.  "You  have  hit 
them  off  to  a  nicety.  Sceptical  or  something, — that's 
just  it.  You  see,  my  dear,  when  the  beard  begins  to 
sprout  on  a  youth's  chin,  he  fancies  that  it  is  time  he 
had  opinions  of  his  own.  At  this  period  he  begins  to 
sneer  at  the  'fiery  furnace'  story,  and  discovers  that 
whales,  though  their  mouths  be  large,  have  small 
throats,  and  could  never  have  swallowed  Jonah.  His 
throat,  at  any  rate,  is  too  small  to  swallow  such  musty 
tales, — leave  that  to  the  old  women!  Sceptical  or 
something !  Excellent,  excellent,  Alice !  Ah,  that 
merry  tongue  of  yours !" 

"I  am  delighted  that  you  take  so  philosophical  a 

view  of  the  case,"  said  Alice,  much  taken  aback  at  this 

unexpected  praise  of  her  wit.     She  might  have  added 

that  she  was  amazed.     How  often  do  those  we  know 

R        z  33 


386  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

best  utterly  confound  us  in  this  way !  Mrs.  Eolfo  was 
what  some  lukewarm  people  called  fanatically  pious; 
and  Alice  had  been  looking  forward  with  dread  to  the 
scene  that  poor  Mary  must  have  with  her  when  she 
learned  that  her  daughter  had  given  her  heart  to  a 
sceptic  (or  something).  Strange!  it  was  the  very 
energy  of  this  fanaticism  which  wrought  the  result 
which  so  surprised  Alice.  It  is  possible  for  convictions 
to  be  so  strong  as  to  inspire  a  merry  incredulity  touch 
ing  the  honesty  of  opposing  beliefs. 

"  Why,  of  course,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Eolfo,  smiling  com 
placently.  (It  was  the  word  philosophical  that  did  the 
business.)  "  The  fact  is,  my  dear,  there  are  no  infidels. 
It  is  all  the  merest  affectation.  Most  young  men  pass 
through  an  attack  of  scepticism,  just  as,  earlier  in  life, 
teething  must  be  gone  through  with.  It  is  a  cheap 
mode  of  earning  a  reputation  for  brains.  With  girls, 
this  striving  to  be  brilliant  takes  a  different  shape. 
Many  young  women  cultivate  sarcasm  for  a  year  or  so 
after  leaving  school,  not  having  seen  enough  of  man 
kind  to  know  that  a  satirical  turn  infallibly  indicates 
the  combination  of  a  bad  heart  with  an  empty  head. 
But  people  of  experience  learn  to  pardon  these  foibles 
of  youth.  The  fact  is,  Alice,"  added  Mrs.  Eolfe,  smiling, 
"I  know  nothing  in  life  more  dcliciously  comic  than  a 
young  graduate  posing  as  a  'thinker.'  Of  course,  if 
they  are  loud-mouthed — " 

"  That,  at  least,  he  is  not." 

"Of  course  not,  of  course  not;  since  I  hear  he  is  a 
gentleman.  But  how,  pray,  does  he  show  that  he  is  a 
sceptic,  or  something?  (Capital  phrase,  upon  my  word, 
Alice!)  How  do  you  know  it?" 

"  During  the  whole  time  that  he  has  been  at  Elming- 
ton  he  has  never  once — I  am  afraid  it  is  more  serious 
than  you  imagine — " 

"  Go  on !" 

"  Never  once  put  his  foot  inside  the  church." 

"Impossible!"  cried  Mrs.  Eolfe.  "Why,  'tisn't  gen 
teel  !" 

"  Never  once  /" 

"  And  his  apology  ?" 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  387 

"  The  Don  apologizing !"  broke  in  Alice,  with  a  little 
laugh.  "You  don't  know  him!" 

"  What !  paying  court  to  my  daughter,  and  allowing 
her  to  go  to  church,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  without 
ever  offering  to  attend  her?  I  should  just  have  liked 
Mr.  Eolfe  to  have  tried  that  game  with  me  !  Even  now, 
— and  we  have  been  married  thirty  years  I  just  fancy 
me  marching  off  to  church  alone !" 

To  do  Mr.  Eolfe  justice,  those  who  knew  him  and  the 
partner  of  his  bosom  best  would  never  have  suspected 
him  of  trying  to  play  any  such  game  on  Mrs.  Eolfe  in 
their  courting  days,  still  less  now.  He  discovered 
during  the  first  month  of  the  fii'st  year  of  the  thirty 
alluded  to,  that  his  Araminta  was  a  woman  of  views; 
and  he  had  spent  the  twenty-nine  years  and  eleven 
months  immediately  preceding  these  obsei'vations  of 
Mrs.  Eolfe  in  learning  just  what  those  views  were,  that 
he  might  the  better  conform  to  the  same. 

"  The  i-d-e-a  I"  chirped  Alice. 

"  Yes,  indeed.  And  if  Mary  will  be  guided  by  me — 
Upon  my  word,  Alice,  aren't  we  both  too  absurd !  Has 
the  wedding-day  been  fixed  ?  If  so,  I  have  not  heard 
of  it.  Before  that  happens,  your  Mr.  Don,  or  whatever 
he  is,  will  have  to  have  a  talk  with  me — I  mean  Mr. 
Eolfe."  (Which,  as  she  went  on  to  explain,  was,  as  in 
all  harmonious  households,  one  and  the  same  thing. 
She  could  not  remember,  in  fact,  when  she  had  expressed 
an  opinion  different  from  Mr.  Eolfe's.) 

Sly  was  Mr.  Eolfe,  they  say ;  who  always  let  his  wife 
have  the  first  say, — and  then  he  had  her  just  where  he 
wanted  her. 

"  He  won't  find  me, — or,  rather,  Mr.  Eolfe, — so  senti 
mental  as  to  refuse  to  hear  who  he  is  I" 

In  the  end  our  spirited  matron  was  much  mollified 
at  learning  that  the  Don  had  not  been  "  paying  court" 
to  her  daughter,  and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  publicly 
slighting  her.  The  affair  had  been  so  sudden,  etc.,  etc. 
But  Alice's  master-stroke  was  delivered  when  she  told 
how  the  Don  had  fought  against  the  avowal  of  his  love. 

Ah !  they  never,  as  we  men  do,  get  so  old  as  quite  to 
forget  all  their  romance,  these  women ! 


388  THE  STORY   OF  DON  MIFF. 

"Honor  is  a  good  thing  to  begin  with,"  said  she. 
"As  to  the  church  business,  I  think  we  shall  be  able 
to  manage  that,"  she  added,  with  a  slightly  influential 
expression  about  those  lips  which  had  so  often  carried 
conviction  to  the  peace-loving  bosom  of  the  harmonious 
Mr.  Eolfe. 

"  Provided,  of  course — "  continued  she. 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  chimed  in  Alice. 


CHAPTEK  LX. 

IP  there  was  one  feeling  which  swayed  Mrs.  Eolte 
quite  as  strongly  as  her  religious  fanaticism  (to  use  the 
word  of  the  lukewarm),  it  was  iier  absorbing  love  and 
admiration  of  her  daughter.  Not  a  specially  intellect 
ual  woman  herself,  Mary's  gifts  and  wide  culture  were 
a  source  of  continual  exultation  to  her.  "  She  gets 
her  literary  turn  from  her  father,"  she  used  to  say, 
truly  enough  ;  for  he  was  a  cultivated  man  (there  were 
no  "  cultured"  men  in  existence  then,  thank  God),  who 
would  have  made  his  mark  in  letters  had  he  lived  in  a 
more  stimulating  atmosphere.  In  fact  (though  Mrs. 
R.  always  denied  it  with  a  blush),  he  had  carried  the 
day  over  more  than  one  suitor  for  her  hand,  and  won 
her  young  heart  by  means  of  his  endowments  in  this 
very  direction ;  for  while  they  had  been  confined,  by 
the  limitations  of  their  several  geniuses,  to  sighing  like 
furnaces,  he  had  made  a  woful  ballad  to  his  mistress's 
eyebrow ;  bringing  victory ;  and  the  defeated  went  their 
way,  full  of  strange  oaths. 

So  that  a  sort  of  sentimental  interest  in  literature 
heightened  Mrs.  Rolfe's  admiration  for  her  daughter's 
accomplishments. 

She  was  her  only  child,  too ;  and  no  one  can  blame 
her  for  looking  upon  it  as  axiomatic  that  few  men  were 
good  enough  for  her  Mary. 

Judge  of  her  dismay,  then,  when  she  learned  so  sud 
denly  that  her  daughter  was  profoundly  interested  in 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  389 

a  man  whom  it  was  quite  natural  for  her  to  look  upon 
as  a  suspicious  character.  No  wonder,  then,  that  she 
surprised  her  neighbors  by  the  rapid  pace  at  which  she 
had  crossed  the  street.  She  walked  briskly,  too,  when 
she  returned  from  her  long  talk  with  Alice,  but  her  face 
wore  a  different  expression. 

For  she  was  rehearsing  a  pleasant  little  drama  as  she 
hurried  back  across  the  street. 

Her  daughter's  sad  face  had  deeply  pained  her.  It 
was  plain  to  see  that  if  she  loved  not  wisely,  she  loved, 
at  least,  too  well ;  and  she  pitied  her  from  the  bottom 
of  her  heart.  Perhaps  some  anger  had  been  mingled 
with  the  softer  feeling  at  first;  but  Alice  had  put  a 
new  face  upon  the  matter ;  and  she  was  hurrying  home 
to  say  to  her  daughter  that  she  for  one  (and  her  father 
for  another)  looked  upon  the  alleged  scepticism  of 
young  men  as  the  most  harmless  of  eccentricities ;  and 
her  face  wore  a  determined  smile.  She  did  not  intend 
to  commit  herself.  It  would  be  time  enough  to  ex 
press  her  views  (that  is  to  say,  Mr.  Eolfe's)  when  this 
Enigma  had  given  an  account  of  himself.  But  if  that 
was  all  that  could  be  said  against  him,  etc.,  etc.,  etc., 
etc. 

And,  would  you  believe  it  ?  the  very  incognito  of 
our  hero  had  begun  to  make  the  imagination  of  this 
staid  matron  cut  fantastic  capers.  Who  could  tell? 
Strange  things  had  happened  before.  Why  not  ? 

"  Sceptic  or  something  I"  She  almost  laughed  as  she 
turned  the  knob  of  the  door.  "  The  poor  child  should 
laugh,  too !" 

The  poor  child  did  not  laugh  I 


3<JO  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

THE  poor  child  did  not  laugh. 

"You  do  not  know  him,  you  do  not  know  him," 
again  and  again  she  replied,  wearily. 

She  might  have  added, — but  she  did  not, — "  You  do 
not  know  me."  And  after  all,  what  mother,  of  them 
all,  knows  her  daughter,  enveloped  as  she  is  in  a  double 
veil  ?  For  between  the  old  heart  and  the  young  lies 
the  mist  of  the  years ;  and  what  eye  can  pierce  aright 
the  diffracting  medium  of  maternal  love? 

Even  Doctor  Alice,  when  called  in  consultation,  next 
day,  could  not  probe  to  the  bottom  of  the  mystery. 

And  are  there  not  ever  some  little  nooks  and  corners 
of  our  hearts  unsuspected  by  our  dearest  friends,  even  ? 
— aspirations  that  they  would  have  laughed  at,  per 
haps, — fears  which  we  should  have  blushed  to  confess, 
— hopes,  alas,  withered  and  fallen  now, — that  we  have 
never  revealed  to  mortal  ears  ? 

Now,  within  our  Mary's  breast  there  was,  I  shall  not 
say  a  nook  or  a  recess,  but  a  dark  and  dismal  chamber, 
the  key  of  which  had  never  left  her  keeping. 

Let  us  call  it  the  Cavern  of  Religious  Terror,  and 
cut  the  allegory  short. 

Suppose  we  try  to  put  ourselves  in  her  place,  and 
see  how  things  looked,  not  to  an  average  girl  of  that 
period  (still  less  to  any  one  of  this),  but  to  one  such  as 
Mary  was. 

At  the  time  in  question,  the  dogma  of  what  is  known 
among  theologians,  I  believe,  as  that  of  the  plenary 
inspiration  of  the  Scriptures,  was  held  from  one  end  of 
Virginia  to  the  other. 

That  is  to  say,  my  Ah  Yung,  that  every  chapter, 
every  sentence,  every  word,  and  every  syllable  of  the 
Bible  had  been  literally  inspired,  and  was  absolutely 
true.  This  we  were  expected  to  believe  and  did  be 
lieve  ;  and  by  what  ingenuity  we  were  to  escape  the 
dogma  of  eternal  damnation  I,  for  one,  cannot  see. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  391 

But  we  made  no  effort  to  escape  it,  regarding  it,  to  a 
man,  as  the  mainstay  of  society  and  the  sheet-anchor 
of  all  the  virtues.  A  belief  in  hell  was  ranked  among 
the  necessaries  of  life. 

"  'Twas  the  merest  luxury,"  quoth  Charley. 

Now,  what  is  the  imagination  but  a  kind  of  inner 
eye,  revealing  to  us,  often  with  fearful  distinctness, 
that  which  may  be,  but  is  not.  And  imagination  was, 
as  we  know,  an  overshadowing  trait  of  Mary's  mind. 

And  what  a  training  that  imagination  had !  Her 
mother  thought  it  was  her  duty,  so  let  that  pass ;  but 
hardly  had  she  shed  her  long  clothes  when  her  preco 
cious  little  head  began  to  teem  with  burning  lakes,  and 
writhing  souls,  and  mocking  demons,  and  worms  that 
die  not.  And,  ofttimes,  her  little  heart  almost  ceased 
to  beat,  as  she  lay  in  her  trundle-bed,  and,  with  wide- 
staring  e}Tes,  saw  her  own  baby-self  engirdled  with  un 
quenchable  flames.  For  had  she  not  fretted  over  her 
Sunday-school  lesson  that  very  morning  (longing  to 
dress  her  new  doll),  and  said  it  was  too  long,  and  oh! 
that  she  hated  the  catechism  ? 

Now,  among  those  who  accept  this  dogma,  there  are 
various  ways  of  dealing  with  it.  The  immense  ma 
jority  inscribe  it  among  the  articles  of  their  creed, 
fold  the  paper,  label  it,  and  file  it  away  in  some  dusty 
pigeon-hole,  in  an  out-of-the  way  corner  of  their  heads, 
and  go  about  their  business.  They  are  satisfied  to 
know  that  it  is  thei'e,  and  that  there  is  no  heresy  about 
them.  A  true  Virginian  looks  upon  his  faith  much  as 
he  does  upon  a  Potomac  herring,  and  would  no  more 
think  of  finding  fault  with  the  one  because  of  a  knotty 
point  or  so,  than  with  the  other  for  the  bones  it  con 
tains.  He  wouldn't  be  caught  carrying  a  stomach 
about  with  him  that  was  capable  of  making  wry  faces 
over  such  spiculse,  not  he.  Look  at  that  noble  roe, 
that  firm  flesh,  as  stimulating  as  cognac!  No  cod-fish, 
no  heresy  for  him  ! 

So  with  the  vast  majority. 

Then,  there  is  another  class  of  minds,  with  which  to 
believe  is  to  realize.  To  such  this  article  of  their  faith 
assumes  abnormal  proportions,  dwarfing  all  others. 


392  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

Upon  this  alone  their  glassy  eyes  are  fixed.  Let  us 
pass  them  by  with  bowed  heads.  Seeking  heaven  in 
the  world  to  come,  they  have  found  a  hell  in  this. 

Our  Mary  stood  between  these  two  classes,  belong 
ing  to  neither ;  but  by  the  nature  of  her  mental  con 
stitution  she  leaned  fearfully  towards  the  latter.  See 
ing  is  believing ;  but  with  Mary  to  believe  was  to  see. 
And  from  her  infancy  to  her  womanhood  her  fond 
mother  had  done  all  that  in  her  lay,  unwittingly,  to 
overthrow  her  reason.  That  that  fair  mind  did  not 
become  as  sweet  bells  jangled  out  of  tune  and  harsh, 
was  due  to  her  father.  It  was  he  that  saved  her, — un 
wittingly  as  well, — saved  her  through  books. 

Mr.  Rolfe  had  no  son,  and  Mary  was  his  only  daugh 
ter.  He  made  her  his  companion  in  his  walks  and  in 
his  study.;  and  she  became,  like  him,  an  omnivorous 
reader;  and  the  baleful  phantasms  of  her  distempered 
spirit  grew  paler  in  the  presence  of  other  and  brighter 
thoughts.  The  process  went  further.  As  she  read  and 
read,  drawing  upon  all  the  great  literatures  (when  she 
could,  in  the  original — else  in  translations),  there  grad 
ually  dawned  upon  her  a  sense  of  the  immense  diver 
sity  of  human  opinion. 

And  yet,  with  what  undoubting  tenacit}7  each  people 
clung  to  its  faith!  Hindu,  Turk,  Greek,  Spaniard, 
Scotchman, — each  was  in  exclusive  possession  of  the 
Eternal  Verities ! 

The  materials  of  the  generalization  were  all  there ; 
and  one  fine  morning  she  said  to  herself:  Religious  truth 
is  simply  a  question  of  geography. 

Mary  Rolfe  was  a  sceptic  I 

And  yet  she  had  not  read  one  sceptical  book.  Where 
was  she  to  find  such  in  Richmond? 

But  this  demure  little  miss  of  sixteen  summers  did 
what  she  could  to  keep  her  doubts  to  herself.  How 
shockingly  ungenteel  to  be  an  infidel !  And  a  female 
infidel!  An  agnostic  would  have  been  different.  The 
very  sound  of  the  word  is  ladylike ;  but,  unhappily 
for  our  heroine,  their  day  had  not  yet  come.  And  for 
a  whole  year  there  was  not  a  more  wretched  littlo 
woman  in  all  Richmond. 


THE  STORY   OF  DON  MIFF.  ,{93 

Two  clocks  shall  stare  at  each  other,  from  opposite 
walls,  year  in  and  year  out,  and  agree  to  disagree  with 
out  the  least  discomfort  to  either.  And  would  that  we 
men  were  even  as  these  serenely-ticking  philosophers! 
Alas  for  the  shadow  that  falls  on  the  friendship  of  Mrs. 
A.  and  Mrs.  B.,  when  they  become  adherents  of  rival 
sewing-machines!  And  why,  because  our  whilom 
chum  now  goes  about  with  the  pellets  of  the  Homoeo 
path  in  his  vest-pocket,  forsaking  the  boluses  of  the 
Regulars,  why  should  we  turn  and  rend  him  ? 

Dreading  to  be  rent,  our  sweet-sixteener  kept  her 
daring  speculations  locked  within  her  bosom,  and  was 
wretched;  for  man's  opinions,  like  man  himself,  are 
gregarious, — and  a  thought  is  as  restless  in  solitude  as 
a  bird  cut  off  from  its  mate. 

So  this  state  of  things  could  not  last.  And  when 
Alice,  after  looking  very  serious  for  a  week,  announced 
her  intention  of  being  confirmed  on  the  approaching 
visitation  of  the  bishop,  Mary  had  to  speak.  Alice 
was  horrified  at  first ;  but,  being  a  plucky  little  soul, 
more  given  to  acting,  under  difficulties,  than  repining, 
she  posted  off  to  their  pastor. 

He  made  short  work  of  Mary's  difficulties ;  and, 
being  well  up  in  evidential  polemics,  battered  down 
her  vague  objections  to  the  credibility  of  Christianity 
with  such  ease,  that,  at  the  close  of  a  two-hours'  in 
terview,  she  begged,  in  deep  humiliation,  that  he  would 
not  consider  her  an  entirely  brainless  creature ;  so  ut 
terly  frivolous  had  all  her  objections  been  made  to 
appear.  Two  or  three  books,  left  in  her  hands,  finished 
the  business.  And,  a  few  weeks  later,  Mary  and  Alice 
knelt  side  by  side,  and  took  upon  themselves  their  bap 
tismal  vows. 

Now,  among  the  various  phases  of  infidelity,  there 
are  two  forms  which  are  strongly  antithetical, — the 
scepticism  of  the  body  and  the  scepticism  of  the  mind. 
Who  has  not  seen  a  vigorous  young  animal  of  our  spe 
cies,  his  head  as  void  of  brains  as  his  body  is  full  of 
riotous  passions, — who  has  not  seen  such  a  one  masquer 
ading  as  a  freethinker?  Never  fear,  reverend  and 
dear  sir;  thinking  will  have  to  be  wondrous  free 


394  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

before  any  of  it  passes  his  way.  Sooner  or  later  you 
shall  number  him  among  the  meekest  of  your  lambs. 
A  hemorrhage — a  twinge  of  gout  in  the  stomach — 
any  reminder  that  he  is  mortal — and  you  shall  see  him 
passing  the  plate  along  the  aisles,  and  offering  to  take 
a  class  in  your  Sunday-school.  In  fact,  a  few  such  re 
claimed  sheep  are  a  positive  necessity  in  every  flock. 
They  point  a  moral.  .Remember  what  he  was,  and  see 
what  he  is.  And  the  blasphemer  of  yesterday  becomes 
the  beacon-light  of  to-day. 

But  when  doubts  have  their  origin  in  the  higher 
rather  than  the  lower  nature, — when  a  mind,  at  once 
candid  and  searching,  gradually  finds  itself  forced  to 
question  dogmas  learned  from  a  mother's  lips, — for  this 
phase  of  scepticism,  the  cure  is  far  more  difficult,  and 
rarely  radical.  You  may  mow  down  the  doubts  with 
irresistible  logic,  they  may  be  crushed  into  the  very 
earth  by  the  enormous  weight  of  unanimous  opposing 
opinion,  but  they  are  not  dead.  JRemove  the  pressure, 
and  the  mind  bristles,  instantly,  with  interrogation- 
points. 

"No,"  said  her  kindly  pastor,  patting  her  brown 
hair,  "I  am  far  from  thinking  that  this  little  head  is 
brainless.  The  trouble  lies  in  the  opposite  direction. 
Stop  thinking  about  things  that  are  above  the  reach  of 
the  human  mind, — above  it,  for  the  very  reason  that 
they  are  of  God.  Honestly,  now,  if  we  could  grasp  the 
meaning  of  every  word  in  that  Bible  of  ours,  as  though 
it  were  a  human  production,  would  not  that,  of  itself, 
prove  that  it  was  of  man  ?  To  be  of  God  is  to  be  in 
scrutable.  Is  not  that  what  a  fair  mind  should  expect? 
Undoubtedly.  But  my  advice  to  you  is,  not  to  bother 
your  head  about  such  subtleties.  Stop  thinking,  and 
go  to  work.  You  will  find  that  a  panacea  worth  all 
the  logic  in  the  world." 

And  such  Mary  found  it  to  be.  And  her  class  in  the 
Sunday-school  was  soon  recognized  as  the  best.  And 
she  taught  the  servants  of  her  mother's  household,  and 
read  to  them  till  they  nodded  again. 

And  so,  when  she  went  down  to  spend  Christmas  in 
Leicester,  after  a  year  spent  in  these  works  of  charity, 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  395 

phe  had  forgotten  that  she  had  ever  been  a  doubter. 
Two  months  had'passed,  and  she  was  all  at  sea  again. 
fihe  felt  that  her  faith  was  slipping  from  beneath  her 
feet.  She  repeated  to  herself,  over  and  over  again,  the 
arguments  of  her  pastor ;  she  read  and  re-read  his  books. 
Their  logic  seemed  irresistible;  yet  it  did  not  give  her 
rest.  Her  head  was  convinced, — 'twas  her  heart  that 
was  in  rebellion.  And  she  was  woman  enough  to  know 
the  danger  of  that. 

Faith  or  love, — which  should  it  be?  One  cannot 
serve  two  masters. 

"Nonsense!"  said  the  cheery  Alice,  one  day.  "I 
can  imagine  now  how  he  will  look,  marching  to  church 
with  your  prayer-book  in  his  hand  !" 

"  No,  it  is  not  nonsense." 

"Pooh!  we  shall  have  him  singing  in  the  choir 
before  you  have  been  married  six  months." 

Mary  laughed  (for  who  could  resist  the  Enchantress  ?) ; 
and  Alice,  seizing  her  advantage,  drew  picture  after 
picture  of  the  reclaimed  Don,  each  more  ludicrous  than 
the  other  (throwing  in  parenthetical  glimpses  of  her 
own  Charley),  till  both  girls  were  convulsed  with 
merriment. 

"No,  Alice,"  said  Mary,  at  last,  wiping  the  tears 
from  her  eyes,  "  it  is  a  very  serious  matter.  Do  you 
know  what  would  happen?  He  would  not  be  saved, 
but  /should  be  lost." 

That  was  what  troubled  Mary.  That  was  why  she 
could  not  laugh  when  her  mother  made  merry  over 
sceptical  youths.  He  who  had  spoken  so  well  and  so 
strangely,  down  there  by  the  Argo,  was  not  a  sceptical 
youth,  but  a  man  of  most  vehement  convictions.  And 
she  felt  that  she  would  be  clay  in  his  hands.  His  faith 
was  formed ;  hers  would  be  formed  upon  it.  Formed 
upon  it?  Crushed  against  it,  rather!  For,  after  all, 
though  of  a  deeply  religious  nature,  as  was  plain,  had 
he  any  religion  ? 

That  was  the  way  we  Virginians*  looked  at  it.     If 

*  Why  Virginians  f  Can  this  so-called  Mr.  Job!  Bouche  Whacker  be  a 
carpet-bagger  ? — Ed. 


396  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

you  were  not  orthodox,  you  didn't  count.  If  you 
were  not  for  us,  you  were  against  us.  "  I  look  upon 
all  Protestant  ministers  as  wolves  in  sheep's  clothing," 
said  a  Catholic  to  me.  Per  contra,  I  once  asked  a 
Presbyterian  minister — a  friend  of  mine — how  ho  rated 
Catholicism.  "What  do  you  mean?"  "Do  you  look 
upon  it  as  a  religion,  for  example  ?"  He  was  a  good 
fellow,  and  wished  to  be  charitable.  He  hung  his  head. 
He  felt  half  ashamed  of  what  he  was  going  to  say. 
But  he  said  it.  Slowly  raising  his  eyes  to  mine,  he 
answered,  in  a  voice  full  of  sadness,  "  I  do  not.  I  re 
gard  it  as  worse  than  nothing." 

Ah,  we  were  out-and-outers  in  those  days !  An  error 
was  worse  than  a  crime.  That  could  be  atoned  for, 
with  the  one,  by  confession  and  absolution ;  with  the 
other  by  repentance,  even  at  the  eleventh  hour.  But 
getting  into  the  wrong  pew!  "A  blind  horse  tumbles 
headforemost  into  a  well.  He  did  not  know  it  was  there  I 
Does  that  save  his  neck  f" 

Ole  Virginny  nebbcr  tire! 

Such  was  the  atmosphere  which  our  Mary  breathed. 
And — strange  psychological  paradox — just  in  propor 
tion  as  her  faith  weakened  did  its  terrors  grow  darker 
to  her  mind.  That  yawning  gulf,  upon  the  brink  of 
which  she  used  to  tremble  as  a  little  child,  seemed  to 
have  opened  again.  She  believed  less — she  feared  more. 
The  peace  she  had  gained  was  gone.  The  old  dark 
days  had  come  back.  One  cannot  serve  two  masters ; 
for  either — 

But  faith  or  love — which  ? 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  397 


CHAPTER  LXII. 

ONE  day,  Mary  burst  into  Alice's  room.  "Bead 
that,"  said  she ;  and  she  threw  herself  upon  the  lounge, 
with  her  face  to  the  wall. 

Alice  was  a  brave  little  soul ;  but  Mary's  pale  face 
and  tear-stained  cheeks  upset  her,  and  her  hands  shook 
a  little  as  she  unfolded  the  letter.  She  read  the  first 
page  with  eager  haste  and  contracted  brows;  then 
turned  nervously  to  the  last  (the  sixteenth),  and  read 
the  concluding  sentence  and  signature. 

"  Why,  what  can  the  matter  be,  Mary  ?  It  begins 
well,  it  ends  well  ?" 

"  It  is  the  same  all  through." 

"The  same  all  through!  And  you  crying  I  Upon 
my  word,  Mary,  you — " 

"  Read  it." 

Those  satirists  who  claim  that  nothing  can  stop  a 
woman's  tongue  have  never  tried  the  experiment  of 
handing  her  a  love-letter.  Over  Alice  there  now  came 
a  sudden  stillness,  chequered  only  by  exclamations  of 
delight, — 

"So  nice ! — beautiful ! — too  lovely ! — A-a-a-a-h,  M-a-r-y! 
Mary,  let  me  read  this  aloud?  A-a-a-hl  No?  You 
goose!  A-a-a-h,  too  beautiful, — too  sweet  for  any 
thing! — I  declare  I  shall  be  heels  over  head  in  love 
with  him  myself  before —  Gracious,  what  a  torrent! 
What  vehemence!  Do  you  know,  Mary,  he  almost 
frightens  me  ?  Well,  I  have  read  the  letter ;  and  now, 
miss,  be  so  good  as  to  explain  what  you  mean  by 
scaring  people  so  with  your  white  face  and  red 
eyes  ?" 

"  It  is  hard,"  said  Mary,  after  a  pause,  and  trying  to 
control  her  voice. — "it  is  hard  to  give — up — all — that — 
love.  And  such  love!" 

34 


398  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  Give  it  up !     Are  you  crazy  ?" 

"Much  nearer  than  you  think.  I  have  scarcely 
closed  my  eyes  for  two  nights.  I  feel  that  I  cannot 
stand  this  state  of  things  much  longer." 

"  What  dreadful  things  does  he  believe,  Mary  ?" 

"  I  have  no  idea." 

"  Then  write  and  ask  him.  I  feel  sure  that  you 
could  bring  him  over,  you  who  are  so  brilliant  and  all 
that,  you  know.  I  wouldn't  say  so  to  your  face,  but 
I  don't  care  what  compliments  I  pay  the  back  of  your 
head." 

Mary  turned  and  laughed. 

"  I  am  glad,"  continued  Alice,  "  I  am  not  a  genius 
with  a  bee  in  my  bonnet ;  and  let  me  tell  you,  there  is 
a  gigantic  one,  of  the  bumble  variety,  buzzing,  at  this 
very  moment,  just  here"  And  she  rapped  Mary's  head 
with  the  rosy  knuckle  of  her  forefinger. 

Mary  adopted  Alice's  suggestion ;  and  there  sprang 
up,  between  herself  and  the  Don,  a  correspondence 
which  lasted  for  two  months.  Bight  or  nine  weeks  of 
theological  discussion  between  two  lovers!  Think  of 
it! 

Ole  Virginny  nebber  tire ! 

Think  of  it,  but  tremble  not,  my  reader.  Not  one 
line  of  it  all  shall  you  be  called  on  to  read.  Were  I 
an  adherent  of  the  Analytical  and  Intellectual  School, 
as  it  is  called,  of  American  Novelists,  you  should  have 
every  word  of  it.  Then  you  would  be  able  to  trace 
the  most  minute  processes  of  our  Mary's  soul,  and  real 
ize,  step  by  stop,  how  she  reached  the  state  of  mind 
to  which  this  correspondence  ultimately  brought  her. 
But  I  will  spare  you;  for  I  am  a  kind,  good  Bush 
whacker,  if  ever  there  was  one. 

Assume,  therefore,  a  hundred  pages,  or  so,  of  keenest 
Insight  and  most  Intellectual  Dissection,  and  that  we 
have  reached  the  end  of  it.  Here  is  where  we  find 
ourselves.  (No  thanks;  it  would  have  bored  me  as 
much  to  write  it  as  you  to  read  it.) 

During  these  two  months  Mary  has  been  in  a  per 
petual  ferment.  She  has  read  all  the  books  of  eviden 
tial  polemics  that  she  could  lay  her  hands  on.  and  her 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  399 

mind  has  become  a  very  magazine  of  crushing  syllo 
gisms.  She  has  been  pouring  these  out  with  all  that 
eloquence  that  love  is  so  sure  to  lend  a  woman's  pen. 
Day  by  day  she  has  become  more  thoroughly  convinced 
of  the  impregnability  of  her  position  (just  as  lawyers' 
convictions  bloom  ever  stronger  under  the  irrigation 
of  repeated  fees, — retainer,  reminder,  refresher,  con- 
vincer).  From  a  trembling  doubter  she  has  grown 
into  a  valiant  knight-errant  of  the  faith,  ready  to 
measure  lances  with  all  comers. 

And  what  has  he  had  to  say  on  the  other  side  ?  Noth 
ing.  Or  next  to  nothing.  Has  patted  her  on  the  head, 
rather,  and  praised  her  eloquence.  Has  promised  that 
if  ever  she  turn  preacher,  he  will  be  there,  every  Sun 
day,  to  hear.  And,  instead  of  answering  her  letters,  has 
told  her  that  every  one  made  him  love  her  a  thousand 
times  more  than  before.  Not  an  argument  any  more 
than  a  cliff  argues  with  the  waves  that  break  against  it. 

And,  like  the  waves,  her  enthusiasm  had  its  ebb 
tides.  Days  of  profound  discouragement  came  over  her, 
when  arrows  she  thought  sure  to  pierce  his  armor 
glanced  harmless  away  and  left  him  smiling. 

Left  him  smiling.  So  she  thought.  But  it  was  not 
so.  Our  little  heroine  stood  upon  a  volcano. 

When  she  was  with  the  Don,  there  was  something 
about  him  which  told  her  what  she  could  say  to  him, 
what  not.  But  the  paper  on  which  he  wrote  was  like 
other  paper,  and  gave  no  warning.  How  could  she,  so 
far  away,  see  the  dark  look  that  came  into  his  face  as 
he  read  this  in  one  of  her  letters : 

"  How  can  you,"  she  had  said,  at  the  close  of  an  im 
passioned  burst  on  the  beneficence  of  the  Creator,  as 
evinced  in  the  beauties  of  nature, — "  how  can  you,  as 
you  look  upon  that  beautiful,  shining  river,  and  the 
rosy  clouds  that  float  above  it,  and  breathe  this  balmy 
air  of  spring, — how  can  you  lift  your  eyes  from  such  a 
scene  of  loveliness  and  bounteous  plenty  as  surrounds 
you, — how  dare  you  raise  your  eyes  to  heaven  and  say, 
there  is  no  God !" 

She  could  not  see  his  look  when  he  read  that.  All 
she  saw  was  something  like  this : 

34 


400  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

11 1  cannot  pretend  to  argue  with  such  a  wonderful 
little  theologian  as  you, — I  who  know  nothing  of  the 
ology.  But  where  did  you  get  the  notion  that  I  was 
an  atheist?  I  could  almost  wish  I  were  one,  for  the 
mere  happiness  of  being  converted  by  you.  In  point 
of  fact,  I  am  nothing  of  the  kind.  How  could  I  be? 
I  need  not  look  at  the  rosy  sunset,  or  the  smiling  fields 
about  me,  to  learn  that  there  is  a  God.  I  have  but  to 
gaze  into  my  own  heart,  and  upon  your  image  im 
printed  there.  A  fool  might  say  that  land  and  sea  came 
by  chance ;  but  my  Mary !  Her  arguments  are  not 
needed.  She  herself  is  all-sufficient  proof,  to  me  at 
least,  that  there  exists,  somewhere,  a  Divine  Artificer. 
So  don't  call  names.  It  isn't  fair.  Atheist,-  deist,  in 
fidel,  old  Nick, — what  arrow  can  I  send  back  in  retort  ? 
Arrows  I  have, — a  quiver  full  to  bursting, — but  all  are 
labelled  angel  /" 

How  was  she  to  know  that  she  stood  upon  a  preci 
pice?  But  Charley  saw  that  all  was  not  well.  Look 
ing  up  from  a  letter  he  was  reading  (his  face  was  red 
from  a  sudden  stoop  to  snatch,  unobserved,  some  vio 
lets  that  had  fluttered  out  as  he  unfolded  it).  Looking 
up  from  this  letter — 

But  Charley  had  his  troubles,  too,  of  which  I  must 
tell  you  before  we  go  an  inch  further. 

Between  him  and  Alice,  as  well,  a  controversy  raged. 
But  in  the  case  of  this  couple  it  was  Charley  that  did 
all  the  arguing. 

The  proposition  that  young  Frobisher  maintained,  in 
letter  after  letter,  was  this :  that  when  a  girl  had  prom 
ised  to  marry  a  fellow,  she  should  never  thereafter  write 
to  him  without  telling  him  somewhere — he  did  not  care 
a  fig  (not  hel)  whether  it  was  in  the  beginning,  or  the 
end,  or  the  middle  of  the  letter — that  she  loved  him; 
just  for  the  sake  of  cheering  a  fellow  up,  you  know, 
away  down  here  in  the  country,  and  all  that.  He 
would  be  satisfied  even  with  a  postscript  of  three  words 
(he  would),  if  you  would  but  let  him  name  the  words, 
etc.,  etc.  After  this  she  had  never  written  a  letter  with 
out  a  postscript;  but  whether  from  the  love  of  teasing, 
which  is  innate  in  cats  and  young  women,  when  they 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  401 

have  a  mouse  or  a  man  in  their  power,  or  from  genuine 
maidenly  modesty,  she  never  said,  in  plain  English,  ex 
actly  what  Charley  wished  to  hear;  as,  P.  S. —  Unreason 
able  old  goose,  or,  How  could  I?  or,  7  wonder  if  I  do?  or, 
What  do  you  think  ?  But  they  were  the  merriest  letters 
that  ever  were  seen,  and  made  Charley  so  happy  (for 
all  his  grumbling)  that  at  this  period  of  his  life  he  used 
to  wake  up  a  dozen  times  a  night,  smiling  to  himself, 
all  in  the  dark ;  then  float  off  again  into  a  dreamland 
populous  with  postscripts  of  the  most  maudlin  descrip 
tion.  "  Do  you  know,"  said  he,  in  one  of  his  letters, 
"  that  never  once  in  my  whole  life  has  a  woman  said 
to  me,  7  love  you  ?" 

Opening  the  reply  hastily  (to  read  the  postscript 
first),  the  violets  had  dropped  out,  covering  the  poor 
boy  with  blissful  confusion.  7  don't  hate  you  a  bit,  said 
the  postscript. 

Some  metaphysical  notion  must  have  come  into 
Charley's  head,  as  he  read  those  words  don't  hate.  Did 
he,  perhaps,  think,  that  somewhere  between  the  nega 
tive  don't  and  the  positive  hate  there  must  lurk, 
though  invisible,  the  longed-for  word  love?  At  any 
rate,  selecting  a  spot  midway,  he  kissed  it  with  accu 
racy  and  fervor. 

"  Umgh — umgh !"  grunted  Uncle  Dick,  who  had  hap 
pened  to  step  up  on  the  threshold  just  at  this  critical 
and  romantic  juncture. 

"  I  did  nothing  of  the  kind  !'*  said  Charley. 

"  What  ?"  asked  the  Don,  looking  up  from  his  letter. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Charley. 

"  Uncle  Dick !"  called  Charley,  at  the  door  whence 
the  venerable  butler  had  vanished,  "come  here!  I  say, 
if  ever  you  tell  Uncle  Tom — " 

"Tell  him  what,  Marse  Charley?" 

"  You  old  villain !  There, — go  to  the  sideboard  and 
help  yourself!" 

"Much  obleeged,  mahrster;  my  mouf  is  a  leetle 
tetched  wid  de  drought,  dat's  a  fac'.  And  here's  many 
happy  returns  to  you,  likewise  all  enquirin'  friends; 
and  here's  hopin'  dat  de  peach  may  tase  as  sweet  in  you 
mouf  as  it  look  to  you  a-hangin'  on  de  tree !"  And  he 
aa  34* 


402  THE  STORY   OF  DON  MIFF. 

vanished,  backing  out  of  the  room,  smiling  and  bow 
ing— 

As  though  a  courtier  quitted  the  presence-chamber 
of  Louis  Quatorze  1 

It  was  looking  up  from  this  very  same  violet-scented 
letter  that  Charley  saw  the  Don  gazing  out  of  the 
window  with  a  troubled  look.  "  What  has  Mary  been 
writing  to  the  Don  ?"  he  asked  Alice.  "  He  and  I 
don't  compare  notes,  as  I  suppose  you  do.  For  some 
time  past  his  face  has  been  clouded  after  reading  one 
of  her  letters.  What  does  it  mean?" 

Alice  acquainted  him,  in  her  next,  with  the  nature 
of  the  correspondence,  and  was  surprised  at  the 
earnestness  of  Charley's  protest  against  the  course 
Mary  was  pursuing.  "If  you  have  any  influence  over 
Mary,  stop  this  thing;  stop  it  instantly.  She  is  tread 
ing  on  a  mine.  You  and  Maiy  are  deceived  by  the 
gentleness  and  courtesy  of  his  replies.  You  don't 
know  the  man.  I  do ;  and,  as  Uncle  Dick  says  about 
a  certain  mule  on  the  place  here,  he  isn't  the  kind  of 
man  to  projick  'longo'.  'She  am  a  sleepy-lookin'  ani- 
mil,  Marse  Charley,  and  she  look  like  butter  wouldn't 
melt  in  her  mouf ;  no  mor'n  'twouldn't,  eff  you  leff 
her  'lone ;  but  I  rickommen'  dat  you  don't  tetch  her 
nowhar  of  a  suddent,  leastwise  whar  she  don't  want 
to  be  tetched.  De  man  what  tickle  dat  mail  in  de 
flank,  to  wake  her  up,  sort  o',  will  find  hisself  waked 
up  powerful,  hisself.  Lightnin'  ain't  a  suckumstance  to 
dat  d'yar  self-same  Sally-muil  when  she  are  tetched 
on  proper  to  her  notion.  Don't  you  projick  'long  o' 
Sally,  I  tell  you,  mun.  Krrrup!  Umgh — umgh!  Grood- 
by,  chile;  for  you're  a-gwine  to  kingdom  come.'  " 

Alice  laughed  so  at  this  comical  illustration  that, 
most  likely,  she  would  have  forgotten  the  injunction  it 
enforced,  but  for  a  postscript  in  these  words :  "  It  is  a 
habit  with  me — an  affectation,  if  you  will — always  to 
say  less  than  I  mean.  C.  F." 

Startled  by  this  ominous  hint,  Alice  fluttered  across 
the  street  and  into  Mary's  room ;  and  there  was  a  field- 
day  between  them. 

The  conflict  lasted  for  hours,  and  seemed  likely  to 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  403 

end  in  a  drawn  battle, — a  defeat,  that  is,  for  the  attack 
ing  party.  Alice's  old  weapons,  with  which  she  had 
so  often  gained  the  victory  over  her  less  ready  ad 
versary,  seemed  to  have  lost  their  edge.  In  vain  did 
she  coruscate  with  wit,  bubble  with  humor,  caper  about 
the  room  in  a  hundred  little  droll  dramatic  impromptus. 
Mary  was  unmoved,  and  sat  with  her  eyes  bent  upon 
the  floor.  At  last,  with  a  flushed  face,  Alice  rose  to 
go ;  and  it  was  then  that  she  shot  a  Parthian  arrow. 

"Very  well,  Mary."  And  her  eyes  looked  so  dark 
that  you  would  never  have  said  that  they  were  hazel. 
"  Very  well ;  have  your  way ;  but  I  should  not  have 
thought  it  of  you !" 

"  You  are  not  angry  with  me  ?"  said  she,  seizing  her 
hand. 

"No,  not  angry;  but  disappointed.  I  never  pre 
tended  to  have  anything  heroic  about  me,  Mary.  I  am 
only  an  every-day  sort  of  a  girl ;  but  I  can  tell  you 
this.  If  I  loved  a  man — " 

"  Don't  you  ?" 

"  If  I  loved  a  man,  I  should  stand  by  him  to  the  last, 
no  matter  what  he  might  think  of  the — the — Penta 
teuch — or  even  Deuteronomy."  And  a  twinkle  danced, 
for  a  moment,  in  her  flashing  eyes.  "  What  he  thought 
of  Alice,"  added  she,  with  a  parenthetical  smile,  "that 
would  be  the  main  point  with  me.  And  if  he  loved  me 
as  the  Don  loves  you,  I  would  follow  him  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth.  Yes,  and  to  the  end  of  the  world.  To 
the  end  of  the  world — and — and — beyond  I" 

A  noble  devotion  illumined  her  face  as  she  uttered 
these  words,  and  Mary's  eyes  kindled  in  sympathy. 

"Then  you  would  marry  an  unbeliever?" 

"Mary,  if  you  were  to  fall  into  a  river,  the  Don 
•would  leap  in  to  save  you.  You  see  him  battling  with 
waves  of  another  kind — and— you  hesitate  1  Plunge 
boldly  in, — throw  your  loving  arms  around — " 

"Oh!" 

"  Metaphorically  speaking !" 

"Ah!" 

"  Of  course  I" 


404  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 


CHAPTER  LXIII. 

THE  two  friends  sat  down  and  talked  ever  so  much 
more.  Alice  did  not  show  Charley's  letter  to  Mary, 
but  before  she  said  good-night  she  exacted  a  promise 
from  her  to  give  up  her  religious  warfare  upon  the 
Don. 

Mary  meant  to  keep  her  word,  but  the  fates  were  too 
strong  for  her. 

Among  her  relatives  there  was  a  young  man — a 
second  cousin,  I  believe — whose  society  she  greatly  en 
joyed  ;  for  he  was  well-read,  naturally  bright,  and  a 
capital  talker.  He  had  studied  law,  and,  in  fact,  been  ad 
mitted  to  the  bar ;  but  he  was  not  strong  enough  for 
that  laborious  profession,  and,  being  an  ardent  student, 
soon  broke  down.  During  Mary's  stay  at  Elmington  he 
had  had  an  alarming  hemorrhage.  This  visitation  (it 
had  occurred  on  Christmas  Day,  too)  he  looked  upon 
as  a  call  to  the  ministry,  to  use  the  language  of  the 
period.  And  so  the  man  whom  she  had  left,  two 
months  before,  a  bright  ambitious  young  lawyer,  she 
found,  on  her  return,  an  exceedingly  serious  theological 
student. 

In  Virginia,  the  relations  existing  between  cousins 
of  opposite  sex  are  pleasanter,  I  believe,  than  in  most 
other  parts  of  the  world.  At  any  rate,  these  two  were 
almost  like  brother  and  sister. 

What  kind  of  man  was  this  Don  ?  and,  most  impor 
tant  of  all,  in  his  eyes,  how  did  he  stand  as  to  the  ques 
tion  of  questions?  It  was  some  time  before  he  got  the 
whole  truth  out  of  Mary ;  partly  because  she  was  loath 
to  tell  it,  partly  because,  as  a  Virginian  of  the  period, 
it  was  difficult  for  him  to  take  it  in.  But  it  dawned  on 
him  by  degrees,  and  gave  him  all  the  greater  concern, 
knowing  Mary,  as  he  did,  so  thoroughly.  Mary  had, 
in  fact,  made  an  exception  of  him  in  her  sceptical  days, 
and  told  him  everything.  And  now  again  (when  once 
the  ice  was  broken)  she  was  as  unreserved.  She  felt 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  405 

that  her  heart  would  burst  if  she  could  not  pour  forth 
her  troubles  into  some  sympathetic  ear.  Sbe  had 
Alice,  it  is  true  ;  but  there  are  many  things  which  a 
woman  would  sooner  say  to  a  man  than  to  one  of  her 
own  sex. 

And  especially,  during  these  conferences,  was  she 
never  tired  of  sketching  the  Don.  But,  as  line  after 
line  of  his  character  came  out  in  bolder  and  bolder  re 
lief,  more  and  more  convinced  became  her  cousin  that 
it  would  be  a  fatal  blunder  on  Mary's  part  to  unite  her 
destiny  with  that  of  this  man,  whose  convictions  were 
as  firm  as  they  were  objectionable.  It  was  easy  to  see 
who  would  lead  and  who  follow  in  such  partnership. 

And  at  first  he  had  joined  the  crusade  against  the 
erroneous  tenets  of  the  Don :  lending  books  and  sug 
gesting  arguments  to  Mary;  but  he  soon  gave  up  even 
the  slender  hopes  he  at  first  had  of  success,  and  from 
that  day,  to  Alice's  great  indignation,  left  no  stone  un 
turned  to  induce  Mary  to  break  with  her  lover. 

And  his  words  had  great  weight  with  Mary.  His 
strength  was  rapidly  failing.  The  hectic  flush  on  his 
wan  cheeks  and  the  unnatural  lustre  of  his  eyes  showed 
but  too  plainly  that  he  was  not  long  for  this  world  ; 
and  his  hollow  voice  seemed  to  Mary,  at  times,  almost 
a  warning  from  the  next.  Between  him  and  Alice  it 
was  an  even  battle ;  victory  inclining  first  to  one  stand 
ard  and  then  to  the  other.  Just  at  the  present  junc 
ture  she  is  perched  on  Alice's  banner.  For  Mary  has 
promised  to  let  Hume  and  Yoltaire  take  care  of  them 
selves  for  the  future ;  and,  since  logic  had  failed,  to 
trust  to  love. 

She  slept  well  that  night,  and  awoke  next  morning 
blithe  and  gay.  Awoke  singing  rather  than  sighing. 
Her  song  was  short. 

That  evening  her  cousin  came.  She  told  him  of  her 
resolution.  He  seemed  unusually  ill  that  day;  and 
whether  from  that  cause  (he  coughed  a  good  deal)  or 
because  he  deemed  it  useless  to  remonstrate,  he  said 
little,  and  soon  took  his  leave,  giving  her,  as  he  bade 
her  good-night,  a  look  full  of  affectionate  compassion. 

Two  or  three  days  after  this,  on  Sunday,  Mary  took 


406  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

her  seat  in  her  mother's  pew,  nestling  in  her  aoeus« 
tomed  corner.  I  hardly  think  she  heard  much  of  the 
service;  and  when  the  pastor  gave  out  chapter  and 
verse  (of  his  sermon),  his  voice  tell  upon  her  outward 
ear  merely.  Her  thoughts  were  far  away. 

Ah,  brother  and  sister  Virginians,  who  can  wonder 
that  we  stream  to  church  so,  on  Sunday  ?  What  serener 
half-hour  can  there  be  than  when  the  good  man  is  talk 
ing  to  us?  Have  we  not  sat  under  his  teaching  for 
years?  And  doth  not  all  the  world  allow  him  to  bo 
orthodox  ?  Shall  we  watch  him,  then  ?  Shall  we  weigh 
his  words?  That,  being  a  safe  man,  he  will  do.  Let 
him  talk!  Ho  will  say  the  right  thing,  never  fear! 
Trust  him!  Give  him  room!  While  we,  free  from  the 
anxieties  of  business  and  the  petty  cares  of  home,  sit 
there,  peacefully  dreaming,  each  one  of  us  the  dreams 
that  each  loves  best ! 

No ;  I  am  afraid  Mary  did  not  even  hoar  what  chap 
ter  and  verse  the  text  was  from  that  Sunday.  That 
Sunday,  particularly ;  for  the  very  day  before  she  had 
received  a  letter  in  which  her  lover  had  said  something 
like  this:  Yes,  he  went  to  church  now;  that  is,  he  sat 
in  the  Argo  every  Sunday,  from  eleven  till  one;  sat 
there  and  thought  of  nothing  but  her, — and  so  found 
that  heaven  which  she  sought. 

Strictly  speaking,  these  were  what  were  thought 
wicked  words  in  those  days  (ole  Virginny  neber  tire); 
but  Mary  forgave,  though  she  did  not  even  try  to  for 
get  them.  And  no  sooner  had  she  taken  her  seat  than 
her  thoughts  flew  to  the  Argo.  She  could  see  him  as 
plainly  as  though  he  stood  before  her;  and  he  was 
thinking  of  her.  And  of  her  only,  of  all  the  world  ! 

Are  you  in  love,  lovely  reader?  Then  you  will  not 
be  hard  on  my  poor  little  heroine,  who  ought  to  have 
waited,  I  allow,  till  Monday. 

"  You  will  find  the  words  of  my  text  in  II.  Corin 
thians,  vi.  14." 

In  those  days  I  sat  in  the  Carters'  pew.  The  Rolfes 
were  across  the  aisle,  a  few  pews  in  advance  of  us. 
Mary's  cousin  was  still  nearer  the  pulpit. 

I  suppose  it  is  none  of  my  business,  but  when  I  cast 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  407 

my  eyes  over  the  placid  faces  of  a  congregation,  I 
always  fall  to  wondering  what  they  are  thinking  about. 
Not  the  grandmothers  in  Israel,  but  the  rest? 

"  II.  Corinthians,  vi.  14,"  repeated  the  preacher, 
slowly  emphasizing  the  figures.  They  all  do  it. 

There  was  to  be  heard  that  faint  rustle  that  we  all 
know,  of  the  people  making  themselves  comfortable. 
Here  a  little  foot  peeps  cautiously  around,  and,  finding 
the  accustomed  stool,  draws  it  deftly  beneath  snowy 
skirts.  There  a  wide  sole  seeks  unoccupied  space ; 
while  length  of  limb  penetrates  unexplored  regions, 
avoiding  cramp.  Let  us  adjust  ourselves,  you  in  that 
corner,  I  in  this,  where  we  can  sit  and  muse  according 
to  the  bent  of  our  several  backs  and  minds. 

"  II.  Corinthians,  vk  14." 

My  eye  chanced  to  fall  on  Mary's  face  just  at  that 
moment.  It  wore  the  usual  Sunday-dreamy  look. 

"Be  ye  not  unequally  yoked  together  with  unbe 
lievers." 

She  shivered. 

Alice  glanced  quickly  towards  her;  but  the  thrill 
had  already  passed.  She  had  regained  outward  com 
posure,  and  sat  looking  at  the  preacher,  calm  and  un 
obtrusively  attentive. 

The  cousin  fidgeted  in  his  seat  and  coughed  softly 
in  his  hand. 

Alice  fixed  her  eyes  upon  him. 

Perhaps  he  felt  them,  for  a  deeper  glow  suffused  hrs 
hectic  cheek. 

The  preacher,  after  a  few  introductory  remarks  on 
the  state  of  things  which  led  the  apostle  to  use  these 
words,  began  with  a  sort  of  apology  for  calling  the 
attention  of  his  flock  to  such  a  text.  And  again  Alice 
fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  cousin,  and  again  he  seemed  to 
feel  their  glow. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  reproduce  the  sermon.  His 
sketch  of  the  advance  of  skepticism  in  Europe,  in  Eng 
land,  and  in  the  North,  struck  me  as  labored  ;  showing 
clearly  that  he  had  been  set  upon  the  task.  But  I 
shall  not  criticise  it.  He  was  at  home,  certainly,  when 
ne  pictured  the  life  of  a  pious,  Christian  woman  whoso 


408  THE  STORY   OF  DON  MIFF.       . 

yoke-fellow  was  an  atheist.  It  was  a  fearful  picture 
(from  the  point  of  view  of  his  hearers, — and  he  was 
preaching  to  them),  of  which  every  detail  was  harrow 
ing.  But  I  leave  that  picture  to  the  imagination  of 
my  readers. 

It  is  the  last  feather  that  breaks  the  camel's  back. 

Alice  had  lost. 

The  dying  cousin  had  won. 


CHAPTER  LXIV. 

I  HAVE  stated,  elsewhere,  that  the  dogma  of  the 
plenary  inspiration  of  the  Scriptures  was  held,  at  this 
period,  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  Virginia. 
It  was  held,  in  truth,  in  a  way  to  warm  the  heart  of  a 
thoroughgoing  theologian ;  for  to  doubt  it  was  to  be 
totally  bereft  of  reason.  But  many  of  my  middle-aged 
fellow-citizens  who  are  accustomed  to  laugh  at  the 
Catholic  doctrine  of  papal  infallibility,  will  be  surprised 
when  I  remind  them  that,  at  that  day,  we  believed, 
also,  in  something  very  nearly  akin  to  the  plenary  in 
spiration  of  sermons  (those  of  our  own  sect,  of  course). 

And  my  Bushwhackerish  candor  compels  me  to  go 
further,  and  to  add  that  it  seems  to  me  that  we  Vir 
ginia  Protestants,  at  that  day,  carried  the  dogma  of 
parsonic  infallibility  to  even  greater  lengths  than 
Catholics  do  that  of  the  papal.  For,  as  I  understand 
it,  it  is  only  in  matters  of  faith  that  the  Pope  cannot 
err  (and  if  he  be  infallible  more  than  that,  I  kiss  his 
holiness's  toe  and  beg  absolution)  ;  whereas,  our  Prot 
estant  pontiffs  did  not  hesitate  to  pronounce  on  all 
manner  of  questions, — questions  of  hygiene,  for  ex 
ample  ;  going  so  far  as  to  add  an  eleventh  command 
ment.  As  it  is  short,  I  will  give  it : 

"  Thou  shalt  not  dance !"  they  cried  in  thunder  tones  j 
and,  trembling,  their  flocks  obeyed ! 

Yet  dancing  is  (as  you  may  find  in  the  first  diction 
ary  you  shall  lay  your  hands  on) — dancing  is  but  the 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  409 

rhythmic  capering  of  the  young  of  our  species  for  a 
brief  season  (ah,  how  brief  and  fleeting!).  The  rhyth 
mic  capering  of  the  boj's  and  girls,  reinforced,  perhaps, 
by  an  occasional  widower  (vivacious,  high-prancing, 
nor  hard  to  please),  or  else  a  sporadic  widow  or  so, 
forgetting  her  first  and  for  getting  her  second. 

This  capering  our  Protestant  pontiffs  put  down. 
Motion,  per  se,  they  argued,  was  harmless;  for  the 
lamb,  most  scriptural  of  animals,  frisketh  where  he 
listeth.  'Twas  the  rhythm  of  motion  that  was  hurt 
ful. 

"  Miss  Sally,"  cried  a  colored  slave  and  sister  to  her 
young  mistress,  "you  jump  de  rope  and  swing  in  de 
hammock,  and  you  a  member  o'  de  church!"  [Her 
very  words ;  nor  were  they  the  remains  of  a  half-for 
gotten  African  fetich.  They  were  a  legitimate  deduc 
tion  from  the  theology  current  in  my  young  days.] 

"  Thou  shalt  not  dance  !"  they  thundered. 

As  though  one  bade  the  birds  cease  singing.  And 
Virginia  bowed  her  head  and  obeyed. 

We  had  our  youthful  sinners,  of  course,  who  wickedly 
refused  to  be  content  with  Blind  Man's  Buff  and  Who's 
Got  the  Thimble?  (just  as  His  Holiness  is  bothered 
with  his  heretics).  The  Pope,  however,  wisely  remem 
bering  that  this  is  the  nineteenth  century,  would  prob 
ably  leave  it  to  the  astronomers  to  say  whether  the 
earth  revolves  around  its  axis;  but  as  to  the  exclu 
sively  physiological  question  whether  it  were  injurious 
to  dance  a  Virginia  reel,  no  Virginian  of  those  days 
ever  dreamed  of  consulting  his  family  physician. 

Am  I  beyond  the  mark,  reader,  when  I  say  that  the 
papal  infallibility  pales  in  presence  of  the  parsonic? 

Can  you  wonder,  then,  that  our  poor  little  Mary  was 
pale  as  ashes  as  she  hurried  home  that  day  ? 

Her  mother  walked  beside  her  in  silence.  That  was 
bitter;  for  during  these  two  months  past  Mrs.  Eolfe 
had  been  more  and  more  won  over  to  the  side  of  the 
Don  by  what  she  had  heard,  not  only  from  Mrs.  Carter 
and  Alice,  but  from  several  of  her  acquaintance  who 
had  met  him  in  Leicester  during  the  winter ;  and  the 
aggregate  of  her  favorable  impressions  had  been  greatly 
s  35 


410  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

strengthened  by  a  little  incident  that  bad  recently  come 
to  her  ears. 

It  appears  that  Mrs.  Poythress  had  been  greatly  in 
terested  in  having  a  new  roof  and  other  repairs  put 
upon  the  old  church,  and  had  succeeded  in  raising  tho 
whole  amount,  with  the  exception  of  eighty  dollars. 
Now,  one  Sunday,  as  she  was  coming  out  of  church 
with  the  congregation,  a  negro  man,  taking  off  his  hat, 
handed  her  a  small  parcel,  saying,  "  I  were  inquested 
to  han'  you  dis,  ma'am,"  and  immediately  bowed  him 
self  around  the  corner  of  the  building  and  disappeared. 
When  this  was  opened  it  was  found  to  contain  five 
twenty-dollar  gold-pieces  and  a  strip  of  paper  on  which 
was  written  the  word  roof  in  a  disguised  hand.  The 
incident  made  some  stir,  as  such  things  will,  in  a 
country  neighborhood.  Who  was  this,  who  was  hiding 
from  his  left  hand  what  his  right  hand  did?  The  negro 
was  hunted  down  by  amateur  female  detectives,  and 
proved  to  be  none  other  than  our  friend  Sam  (who,  it 
will  be  remembered,  caught  Charley  and  Alice  at  their 
love-making  in  the  Argo).  But  nothing  could  be  gotten 
out  of  honest  Sam.  "  I  was  not  to  name  no  names," — 
that  was  all  he  would  say  (adding  thereunto,  in  the 
Elmington  kitchen  that  night,  that  eff  a  five-dollar 
note  wouldn't  "shot  a  nigger  mouf,  twan't  no  use  to 
wase  stickin'-plaster  on  him). 

It  was  never  discovered  who  had  contributed  the 
hundred  dollars,  but  it  was  generally  believed  that  it 
was  the  Don.  As  for  Mrs.  JRolfe,  she  never  doubted 
for  one  moment  that  it  was  he,  basing,  too,  upon  this 
conclusion,  half  a  dozen  inferences,  all  favorable  to  the 
young  man, — first,  that  his  not  going  to  church  was  a 
transient  eccentricity ;  secondly,  that  he  was  a  man  of 
means ;  and,  thirdly,  that  he  was  freehanded  with  the 
said  means,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

This  trait,  as  I  presume  everybody  knows,  is  that 
which,  next  to  personal  courage,  women  most  admire 
in  a  man.  With  what  enthusiasm  will  a  bevy  of  girls 
hail  a  bouquet,  costly  beyond  the  means  of  the  giver, 
while  the  recipient  of  it,  as  she  passes  it  from  nose  to 
nose,  actually  tosses  hers  with  pride, — yes, — because 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  411 

her  lover  has  not  had  the  prudence  to  lay  by  what  ho 
gave  for  it  against  a  rainy  day  and  shoes  for  the  chil 
dren.  Which  is  enough  to  make  a  philosopher  rage ; 
and  it  is  all  I  can  do  to  restrain  my  hand  from  levelling 
a  sneer  at  the  whole  sex ;  and  I'll  do  it  yet,  one  of 
these  days,  and  come  out  as  a  wit, — one  of  these  days 
when  I  can  manage  to  forget  that  I  once  had  a  mother. 

The  more,  therefore,  Mrs.  Rolfe  heard  of  the  Don, 
the  more  favorable  she  grew  to  his  suit ;  and  the  more 
favorable  she  grew  to  his  suit  the  more  frequently  did 
she  allude  to  the  absolute  necessity  of  Mr.  Rolfe's  seeing 
the  young  man  and  hearing  his  account  of  himself,  be 
fore  he  could  be  allowed  even  to  look  at  her  Mary.  It 
would  be  time  enough,  etc.,  etc. ;  but  let  a  cloud  appear 
on  her  daughter's  brow, — let  her  come  down  to  break 
fast  pale  and  worn — 

"  I  believe,  Mary,"  Alice  used  to  say,  "that  you  often 
assume  a  rueful  countenance  simply  to  lead  your  mother 
on  to  sing  his  praises." 

Never,  in  truth,  had  Mary  felt  herself  so  drawn  to 
her  mother  as  during  this  trying  period  of  her  young 
life;  and  to  her  ineffably  tender,  maternal  solicitude 
her  heart  made  answer  with  an  unspoken  yet  passionate 
gratitude. 

And  now  this  mother,  who  was  always  ready  with  a 
soothing  word,  walked  by  her  side  in  silence. 

And  Alice, — Alice,  the  merry  and  the  brave, — where 
was  she?  Why  does  she,  contrary  to  her  custom,  hang 
back  so  far  in  the  rear,  talking  to  Mr.  Whacker  in 
undertones  ?  See,  she  has  crossed  over,  and  is  walking 
down  the  street  on  the  other  side  1  Has  she,  too,  de 
serted  me  ?  Oh,  that  terrible,  terrible  sermon !  She 
ran  up-stairs,  locked  her  door,  and  threw  herself  upon 
the  lounge. 

Mary  was  right.  The  same  words  of  the  preacher 
which  had  stunned  her  had  staggered  her  mother  and 
Alice.  Such  was  the  power  of  the  pulpit  in  those  days. 
To  both,  as  they  stepped  from  the  church-door  into  the 
street,  the  responsibility  of  combating  the  fulminationa 
of  their  pastor  seemed  too  heavy  for  their  shoulders. 

But  our  plucky  little  Alice  was  only  staggered,  and 


412  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

soon  rallied.    She  would  not  go  to  8ee  Mary  that  even 
ing,  so  she  told  me ;  next  morning  would  be  better. 

And  so  the  shades  of  evening  came,  and  the  shades 
of  evening  deepened  into  night;  and  still  she  came  not. 
Is  it  not  enough  that  my  mother  should  desert,  me  ? 
The  clock  struck  nine.  No  hope!  There,  the  bell 
rangl  A  soft  tap  on  her  door;  not  Alice's  merry  rub- 
a-dub.  A  young  slave  and  sister  announced  the  cousin. 
Mary  sprang  to  her  feet:  "I  won't  see  him,"  she  almost 
screamed ;  "  tell  him  that !"  cried  she,  advancing  upon 
her  late  pupil  in  Bunyan's  "  Pilgrim's  Progress"  with 
looks  so  fierce  and  gestures  so  vehement  as  to  drive 
her  back  in  alarm  upon  the  door  which  she  had  just 
entered  with  a  smile. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  yes,  ma'am,"  stammered  the  Pilgrim, 
fumbling  over  the  door-knob  in  her  confused  effort  to 
escape.  "  Yes,  ma'am,  I'll  tell  him,"  added  she,  cour- 
tesying  herself  out,  and  shutting  the  door  softly  behind 
her. 

"Hi!"  half  whispered,  half  thought  she  to  herself, 
as  she  stood  upon  the  landing,  collecting  her  breath 
and  her  wits.  "  Hi,  what  do  matter  wid  Miss  Mary  ? 
Fore  Gaud,  I  was  afeard  she  was  gvvine  to  bite  me,  I 
was!  What  he  done  do,  I  wonder?  Oh,  I  tell  you. 
She  done  git  tired  o'  him  a-comin'  round  and  a-comin' 
round,  and  f'reverlahstin'  coughin',  and  coughin'  and 
coughin',  same  like  one  o'  dese  here  little  fice-dogs  what 
bark  and  bai'k  and  never  tree  nothin',  dough  he  do 
drive  off  de  oder  varmints  dat  you  mought  cotch  ;  and 
no  gal  don't  like  dat,  be  she  white  or  black.  He's  a 
nice  gent'mun,  I  don't  'spute  dat ;  but  he  are  power 
ful  wizzened  up,  dat's  a  fac'.  Howsomdever,  I  ain't  got 
de  heart  to  give  him  no  sich  message.  A  gent'mun  is 
a  gent'mun,  for  all  dat,  and  I  ain't  had  no  sich  raisin'. 
Nebberdeless,  I  ain't  a-blamin'  Miss  Mary.  She  tired 
o'  dat  kind.  Well,  I  likes  'em  spry  and  sassy  myself, 
I  does,  and  I  s'pose  folks  is  folks,  dough  dey  be  diff'ent 
colors.  Ahem !  Ahem !" 

She  was  nearing  the  parlor-door,  and  was  clearing 
her  throat  for  a  polite  paraphrase,  when  she  saw  the 
front  door  gently  close. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  413 

He  had  heard,  and  was  gone. 

Mary  never  saw  him  again.  When  he  died,  about  a 
year  afterwards,  she  said  that  she  had  forgiven  him ; 
but  I  doubt  if  she  knew  her  own  heart.  There  are 
some  things  a  woman  can  never  pardon. 

Nor  do  I  think  that  Alice  has  ever  quite  forgiven 
herself  for  her  delay  at  this  crisis.  For  she  feels  to 
this  day,  I  suspect,  that  had  she  gone  to  see  Mary  that 
evening  this  story  might  have  ended  like  a  fairy-tale, 
with  everybody  happy,  just  as  it  fares  in  real  life.  But 
she  waited  till  next  morning. 

And  she  awoke  with  the  first  twittering  salutations 
of  the  birds  to  the  dawn ;  the  dawn  of  a  lovely  April 
day.  She  too  (for  she  was  young  and  happy)  saluted 
Aurora;  but  with  a  sleepy  smile;  and  readjusting  the 
pillow  to  her  fair  head,  dozed  off  again  ;  dozed  off 
again,  just  as  her  friend  across  the  way,  exhausted 
with  pacing  her  room,  had  thrown  herself,  all  dressed 
as  she  was,  upon  her  bed.  Her  mother,  stealing  softly 
in,  found  her  lying  there,  shortly  afterwards,  pale,  hag 
gard,  breathing  hard,  her  features  bearing,  even  while 
she  slept,  traces  of  the  struggle  through  which  she  had 
passed.  And  every  now  and  then  her  overwrought 
frame  shook  with  a  quick  nervous  tremor.  Her  mother 
wrung  her  hands  in  silence,  and  turned  to  leave  the 
room. 

There  was  a  letter,  sealed  and  addressed,  lying  upon 
the  table  at  which  her  daughter  wrote ;  while  all  about 
her  chair  lay  fragments  of  other  letters,  begun,  but 
torn  in  pieces,  and  thrown  upon  the  floor,  though  a 
basket  stood  near  at  hand.  "  This  will  not  do,"  thought 
her  mother.  "  She  must  tell  me  what  is  in  that  letter 
before  she  mails  it.  We  must  look  into  this  matter, 
carefully,  before  any  irrevocable  step  be  taken.  Shall 
I  take  possession  of  it  now  ?  No,  I  will  speak  to  her 
after  breakfast.  Poor  child  1  Poor  child  1"  And  she 
stole  out  on  tiptoe. 

This  was  not  the  first  time  that  Mrs.  Eolfe  had  vis 
ited  her  daughter  that  night.  At  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  detecting  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  Mary's 
room,  she  had  gone  up-stairs  and  found  her  pacing  her 

35* 


414  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

room.  She  had  entreated  her  to  go  to  bed, — begged 
her  to  compose  herself, — had  pressed  her  daughter  to 
her  heart  and  wept  upon  her  shoulder  and  bidden  her 

good-night.  Mary,  hearing  her  mother  coming,  had 
oped  for  a  word  of  encouragement.  But  Mrs.  Rolfe 
had  not  dared  to  give  it,  with  the  words  of  the  preacher 
still  resounding  in  her  ears. 

"  It  is  all  over,  then,"  she  thought,  when  her  mother 
closed  the  door;  and  seizing  her  pen,  began  to  write. 
"Wrote  letter  after  letter,  each  in  a  different  vein ;  each 
to  be  torn  in  pieces  in  turn.  At  last  she  wrote  one 
which  was  barely  two  pages  long.  As  she  folded  the 
letter  there  fell  upon  it  a  big  tear,  which  she  quickly 
dried  with  her  handkerchief. 

That  tear-stain,  poor  child,  had  you  left  it  there, — 
but  it  was  not  to  be. 

Another  fell  upon  the  address,  blotting  it.  She  got 
another  envelope.  This  time,  as  she  wrote  the  address, 
she  averted  her  head.  The  hot  tears  fell  upon  the  table. 

That  would  tell  no  tales. 

Her  mother  had  seen  the  letter  lying  there,  and  was 
startled.  She  would  talk  to  her  daughter  after  break 
fast. 

After  breakfast.  That  was  Alice's  plan,  too,  you 
remember. 

Mr.  Rolfe,  that  man  of  peace,  had  slept  through  all 
the  turmoil  of  the  night.  "  Where  is  Mary  ?"  asked 
he,  as  he  seated  himself  at  table,  next  morning;  a 
question  which  evoked  two  simultaneous,  though  diver 
gent  replies :  one  from  Mrs.  Rolfe  that  Mary  was  rather 
indisposed,  and  would  hardly  be  down  to  breakfast ;  the 
other  from  the  Pilgrim,  to  the  effect  that  her  young  mis 
tress  had  gone  out,  betimes,  for  a  walk.  "  D'yar  she  is 
now,"  she  added,  as  Mary's  footsteps  were  heard  in  the 
front  hall. 

Mr.  Rolfe  greeted  his  daughter  with  a  smile  of  bright 
benignity.  He  praised  the  roses  in  her  cheeks.  After 
all,  there  was  nothing  like  fresh  air  and  exercise.  As 
she  bent  over  him  and  kissed  him  with  unusual  affec 
tion,  he  patted  her  cheek ;  accompanying  each  tap  with 
a  sort  of  cooing  little  murmur,  which  was  his  way  when 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  415 

she  caressed  him.  He  was  delighted.  He  couldn't  re 
member  when  he  had  seen  her  so  gay.  She  must  walk 
before  breakfast  every  morning.  What  would  she  have  ? 
No  doubt  her  walk  had  made  her  ravenous.  No  ?  Yes, 
Ave  all  lose  our  appetites  in  spring. 

But  her  mother's  eye  saw  no  roses  painted  by  the 
breath  of  morning,  but  a  burning  flush,  rather;  and 
when  she  took  her  daughter's  hand  in  hers,  it  was  icy 
cold.  Her  gayety,  too,  which  rejoiced  her  father's 
heart,  made  her  mother's  ache. 

Presently,  and  while  our  party  still  lingered  around 
the  breakfast-table,  Alice  came  tripping  in,  fresh  and 
cheery,  the  very  personification  of  that  April  which 
was  abroad  in  the  land. 

Alice  was  not  long  in  detecting  the  hysteria  which, 
lurked  beneath  Mary's  assumed  joyousness.  What 
had  happened  ?  An  acute  attack  of  curiosity,  compli 
cated  with  anxiety,  seized  upon  her ;  and  in  less  than 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  she  and  Mary  stood  in  the  hall 
way  across  the  street,  exchanging  a  few  words  with 
Mrs.  Carter. 

"  Let  us  go  up  to  my  room,"  said  Alice. 

"  State  secrets,  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Carter. 

"  Oh,  of  course."  And  the  two  girls  tripped  lightly 
up  the  stairs. 

•  "  How  jolly  you  are  to-day,  Mary,"  called  out  Mrs. 
Carter. 

"  Oh,"  replied  she  from  the  first  landing,  "  as  merry 
as  a  lark.  It's  the  bright  spring  weather,  I  suppose." 

"  Well,  that's  right ;  be  happy  while  the  sun  shines, 
nay  child.  The  clouds  will  come  soon  enough." 

No  sooner  had  the  girls  entered  Alice's  room  than 
her  face  became  serious.  "  Sit  down  in  that  chair," 
said  she,  in  her  quick,  business-like  manner.  "  And 
now,"  added  she,  drawing  a  seat  close  beside  Mary,  and 
taking  her  hand,  "  now  tell  me, — what  is  all  this  ?" 

"  I  am  happy,  that's  all." 

"  Happy  ?" 

"  Yes,  it  is  all  over — and  I  am  free — and  so-o-o-o 
ha-ha-ha-happy !"  And  throwing  herself  on  Alice's 
neck,  she  sobbed  convulsively. 


416  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

Alice  stroked  her  friend's  hair  in  silence,  waiting  till 
she  should  recover  from  this  paroxysm  of  bliss.  At 
last  Mary  began  to  speak. 

"  It  is  all  over,"  she  sobbed.  "  It  was  more  than  my 
strength  could  bear.  After  that  sermon — "  and  she 
shivered. 

"How  all  over?" 

"I  have  broken  off  the  engagement." 

"How?  when?  where?" 

"  I  wrote  the  letter  last  night." 

"  Oh,"  said  Alice,  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  "  Will  you 
just  be  so  kind  as  to  let  me  have  that  letter  ?"  added 
she,  reaching  out  her  hand. 

"  It  is  already  mailed." 

"  Mailed  1"  shouted  Alice,  springing  to  her  feet. 

"Yes.  I  took  it  to  the  post-office  myself  before 
breakfast." 


CHAPTEK  LXV. 

IN  those  days,  before  the  mail-delivery  system  had 
been  introduced,  we  had  to  send  to  the  post-office  for 
our  letters. 

If  we  were  in  love,  we  went  in  person,  of  course. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  called  out  Alice  across  the 
street. 

Mary  came  over  to  her.  "  I  am  going  to  the  post- 
office,"  said  she,  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  will  go  part  of  the  way  with  you,"  said  Alice. 

The  two  girls  walked  on  for  a  little  while  in  silence. 

"Mary,"  said  Alice,  presently,  "tell  me, — what  do 
you  expect  him  to  say  ?" 

"  Don't  ask  me  that,"  she  said,  with  a  shiver. 

"  I  think  I  can  tell  you.  Your  letter,  as  you  quoted 
it  to  me,  severed  all  relations  between  you.  But  have 
you  not  a  kind  of  dim,  unacknowledged  hope  that  ho 
will  recant  his  heresies  and  bridge  the  chasm  between 
you  ?" 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  417 

Mary  walked  on  in  silence. 

"  It  is  natural  that  you  should  nourish  such  a  hope. 
But  suppose  it  should  prove  delusive  ?" 

"  The  die  is  cast.  I  must  abide  the  issue.  And,  Alice, 
— though  you  think  I  have  been  hasty, — I  feel  a  pro 
found  conviction  that  it  is  best  as  it  is." 

"  Well,  good-by !  Be  brave."  And  more  than  once, 
as  she  hastened  homeward,  Alice  passed  her  hand  across 
her  eyes. 

Mary  stood  before  the  little  square  window  at  the 
post-office. 

"  Any  letters  ?" 

The  clerk  knew  who  she  was,  and  the  sight  of  her 
pretty,  pale  face  lent  a  certain  alacrity  to  his  calm, 
official  legs.  Briskly  diving  into  her  father's  box,  he 
handed  her  half  a  dozen  letters.  As  she  passed  them 
nervously  between  thumb  and  finger,  glancing  at  the 
addresses,  he  held  his  steady,  postmasterish  eye  upon 
her.  "What  else  had  he  to  do?  Could  not  that  other 
woman  who  stood  there,  could  not  she  wait?  Was 
not  her  nose  red ;  and  her  chin,  was  not  her  chin  (by  a 
mysterious  dispensation  of  Providence)  bumpy?  Let 
her  stand  there,  then,  craning  her  anatomical  neck  to 
catch  his  stony  gaze.  Let  her  wait  till  pretty  little 
Miss  Rolfe  sorts  her  letters.  Ah,  that's  the  one  she 
hoped  to  get, — that  with  the  distinct,  }7et  bold  and 
jagged  address,  that  I  have  noticed  so  often.  Ah, 
that's  the  one — What  name,  madam  ?  Adkins  ?  Miss 
Elizabeth  Ann  ?  One  for  Miss  Elizabeth  Adkins.  Bog 
your  pardon, — five  cents  due,  Miss  Adkins. 

My  reader,  be  pretty.  Let  me  entreat  you — be 
pretty,  if  you  can  in  anywise  compass  it.  If  not,  be 
good.  Even  that  is  better  than  nothing.  It  will  be  a 
comfort  to  you  in  your  declining  years. 

And  your  little  nephews  and  nieces  will  rise  up,  some 
day,  and  call  you  blessed. 

"  Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  put  these  back  in  the 
box  ?" 

The  clerk  bowed  with  a  gracious  smile ;  and  Mary, 
placing  three  or  four  letters  in  her  pocket,  left  the 
building,  and  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  Capitol 
N 


418  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

Square.  She  passed  in  through  the  first  gate,  and  bur* 
ried  along  the  gravel  path.  By  the  time  she  had 
reached  the  first  seat  she  had  grown  so  weak  that  she 
was  glad  to  throw  herself  upon  it. 

Had  Mary  had  her  eyes  about  her,  she  would  have 
been  struck  with  the  unwonted  aspect  of  the  Square. 
Our  pretty  little  park,  usually  the  resort  of  merry 
children,  wore,  on  this  particular -day,  a  rather  serious 
look.  Men,  in  earnest  conversation,  stood  about  in 
groups.  Others  hurried  past,  without  even  giving  her 
pretty  face  the  tribute  of  a  glance.  But  she  saw  noth 
ing,  heeded  nothing;  not  even  the  dark,  gathering 
throng  which  crowned  the  summit  of  the  green  slope 
in  front  of  the  Capitol;  though  it  was  not  a  stone's 
throw  from  where  she  sat. 

She  drew  her  letters  from  her  pocket,  placing  the 
one  with  the  jagged  address  quickly  beneath  the  others. 
She  tore  open  an  envelope  and  began  to  read.  The 
letter  was  from  a  former  schoolmate, — a  bright  girl, 
but  its  cleverness  gave  Mary  no  pleasure  now,  but 
seemed  frivolity,  rather;  and  as  for  the  cordial  invita 
tion  (on  the  eighth  page),  before  she  got  to  that  she 
had  thrust  the  letter  back  into  its  cover.  She  gave  but 
a  glance  at  the  contents  of  the  next.  The  third  made 
her  forget  herself,  for  an  instant.  It  was  a  large,  busi 
ness-looking  envelope,  stamped  New  York ;  and  she 
gave  a  quick  little  start,  when,  upon  opening  it,  a 
cheque  fluttered  down  before  her  feet.  As  she  read 
the  accompanying  letter,  a  sudden  flash  of  joyful  sur 
prise  illumined  her  face  when  she  found  that  her  article 
(mailed  with  many  misgivings  two  months  ago,  and 
long  since  forgotten)  had  been  accepted.  A  sudden 
flash  of  joyous  surprise,  followed  by  quick  gathering 
clouds;  for,  as  she  stooped  to  pick  up  the  cheque,  a 
fourth  letter  slid  from  her  lap  and  fell  upon  it.  The 
characteristic  hand  in  which  it  was  addressed  she  had 
often  admired ;  it  was  so  firm  and  bold.  Was  it  her 
imagination  that  transformed  it  now  ?  Was  it  changed  ? 
Was  it  more  than  firm  now,  and  had  its  boldness  be 
come  ferocity  ?  A  sudden  revulsion  came  over  Mary ; 
and  upon  the  words  of  the  publishers — words  of  com- 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  419 

mendation  and  encouragement,  which,  a  fortnight  since, 
would  have  filled  her  young  heart  with  exultation, — • 
for  would  not  he  be  proud  ? — more  than  one  big  tear  fell. 

But  that  fourth  letter  remained  unread.  She  held  it 
in  her  hand,  as  one  does  a  telegram,  sometimes,  dread 
ing  to  open  it. 

Her  own  to  him  had  been  brief  and  to  the  point; 
giving  him  to  understand  that  their  engagement  was  at 
an  end,  without  betraying  the  fact  that  her  heart,  too, 
was  broken.  She  had  even  dried  the  tears  that  fell 
upon  the  paper,  you  remember.  She  had  begged  his 
pardon,  of  course,  but  had  purposely  excluded  from  her 
language  all  traces  of  feeling.  As  the  thing  had  to  be 
done,  it  should  be  done  effectually. 

What  would  he  do?  What  would  he  say?  A  thou 
sand  possibilities  had  been  dancing  through  Mary's 
mind. 

First  and  foremost,  would  he  recant? 

Inconceivable!     Still,  this  hope  .refused  to  vanish. 

Would  he  be  violent  ?  Would  his  reply  be  a  burst 
of  fierce  indignation  ?  Very  likely.  Yes,  that  was 
just  what  one  might  expect  from  such  a  man. 

Would  he  be  sarcastic  ?  Will  he  sneer  at  a  re 
ligion  which  can  make  me  break  my  word  ?  That  was 
what  she  dreaded  most  of  all.  Not,  oh  male  reader 
(if  I  shall  have  any  such),  not  lest  his  flings  and  gibes 
should  wound  her.  If  you  think  that,  sir,  you  have 
never  penetrated  into  the  mysteries  of  the  female  heart. 
It  was  a  dread  lest  he — lest  HE  should  descend  to 
such  weapons, — lest  this  soaring  eagle  of  her  imagina 
tion  should  stoop  to  be  a  mousing  owl.  A  Hero  may 
not  use  poisoned  arrows ;  least  of  "all  against  a  woman. 
She  had  never  known  the  Don  to  use  a  sarcastic  word. 
He  was  too  earnest,  too  fearfully  earnest  to  be  satirical. 
He  left  that  to  triflers,  male  and  female.  He  was  never 
witty,  even.  He  is  above  it,  Mar}T  used  to  say,  withiu 
her  heart,  with  that  blessed  alchemy  whereby  women 
know  how  to  convert  into  virtues  the  blemishes  of 
those  whom  they  love.  No,  thought  she  ;  let  him  up 
braid  me ;  let  him  tell  me  that  I  have  been  false  to  my 
word  ;  let  him  even  say  that  I  have  proven  myself  un- 


420  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

worthy  to  link  my  destiny  with  his  (and  am  I  worthy 
of  the  homage  of  such  a  heart?  Did  not  even  unsenti 
mental  Alice  say  that  a  true  woman  would  follow  the 
man  she  loved  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  ?)  ;  no ;  let  him 
cover  me  with  fierce  reproaches, — but  let  him  not  be 
little!  It  is  enough,  and  more  than  enough,  that  I 
have  to  give  him  up.  Let  his  image  remain  untarnished 
in  my  heart ! 

Or,  would  his  letter  be  a  broken-hearted  wail  ?  She 
hoped  not, — so  she  said,  at  least ;  and  let  us  try  to  be 
lieve  her. 

Pressing  her  hand  upon  her  heart  for  a  moment,  to 
calm  its  tumultuous  throbbing,  she  broke  the  seal  of 
the  letter,  took  in  the  first  page  at  one  mad,  ravenous 
glance,  and  the  hand  that  held  the  sheet  fell  upon  her 
lap. 

No  sarcasms,  no  fierce  reproaches,  no  wail  of  a 
broken  heart! — no  anything  that  she  had  though* 
possible. 

Brief,  yet  not  curt,  he  accepted  her  decree  without  a 
murmur;  as  though  a  prisoner  bowed  in  silence  under 
the  sentence  of  the  judge.  No  commonplace,  no 
rhetoric ;  no  trace  of  feeling ;  and  yet  no  flippant  sug 
gestion  of  the  want  of  it.  In  a  word,  his  letter  was 
an  absolutely  impenetrable  veil.  As  though  ho  had 
not  written.  Mary  was  stunned. 

She  had  seen,  as  she  drew  the  letter  from  the  en 
velope,  that  the  top  of  the  second  page  contained  little 
more  than  the  signature.  She  had  not  strength,  just 
yet,  to  read  the  dozen  concluding  words.  She  leaned 
back  upon  the  bench,  resting  her  poor,  dizzy  head  upon 
her  hand.  She  heard  nothing,  saw  nothing.  Yet  there 
was  something  to  see  and  something  to  hear. 

The  craunching  of  many  feet  upon  the  gravel  walk, 
— the  feet  of  strong,  earnest  men.  And  every  now  and 
then  women  passed,  with  faces  pale  but  resolute.  And 
here,  close  beside  her,  a  mob  of  boys,  with  eager  eyes, 
sweep  across  the  greensward,  unmindful  of  the  injunc 
tion  to  keep  off  the  grass.  Movement  everywhere. 
The  very  air  of  the  peaceful  little  park  seemed  to 
palpitate. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  421 

Then  a  sudden  hush  ! 

She  turned  the  page  and  read, — 

"  It  is  not  probable  that  we  shall  ever  meet  again, 
and  I  therefore  bid  you  an  eternal  farewell." 

A  shiver  ran  through  her  frame.  A  moment  after 
wards  she  leaped  from  her  seat  with  a  piercing  shriek ; 
for  almost  at  the  very  instant  that  those  cruel  words 
froze  her  heart  a  terrific  sound  smote  upon  her  ear. 

A  few  feet  from  where  she  sat  the  fierce  throats  of 
cannon  proclaimed  to  the  city  and  the  world  that  old 
Virginia  was  no  longer  one  of  the  United  States  of 
America. 


CHAPTEE  LXVL 

FOUR  years  have  passed  since  our  story  opened,  and 
the  autumn  of  1864  is  upon  us.  For  more  than  three 
years  Virginia  has  been  devastated  by  war.  Most  of 
Leicester's  pleasant  homes  have  been  broken  up.  My 
grandfather,  however,  trusting  to  his  gray  hairs,  had 
remained  at  Elmington.  The  Poythresses  were  re 
fugees  in  Eichmond.  Charley,  who  was  now  a  major, 
commanding  a  battalion  of  artillery  in  the  army  defend 
ing  Eichmond,  had,  two  months  before,  been  taken  in  an 
ambulance-wagon  to  Mr.  Carter's.  A  bullet  had  passed 
through  his  body,  but  he  was  now  convalescent.  Any 
bright  morning  you  might  see  him  sunning  himself  in 
the  garden.  The  house  was  crowded  to  overflowing  with 
refugee  relatives  and  friends  from  the  invaded  districts. 

And  illumined  by  a  baby. 

"  He  was  born  the  very  day  I  was  wounded,"  said 
Charley.  "  I  remember  how  anxious  I  was  to  see  him 
before  I  died." 

"  I  knew  you  wouldn't  die,"  said  Alice ;  "  and  you 
didn't!" 

"  I  am  here,"  said  Charley. 

So,  fair  reader,  Charley,  in  the  last  week  of  Sep 
tember,  1864,  was  a  father  two  months  old.  As  for 
the  baby  (and  I  hereby  set  the  fashion  of  introducing 

36 


422  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

one  or  more  into  every  romance*),  his  mother  had 
already  discovered  whom  he  was  like.  He  was  a 
Carter,  every  inch  of  him,  especially  his  nose.  But  he 
had  his  father's  sense  of  humor, — there  was  not  the 
slightest  doubt  of  that.  For  when  Charley,  who,  in 
speaking  to  the  infant,  always  alluded  to  himself  in 
those  words, — when  Charley,  chucking  him  gingerly 
under  the  chin,  would  ask  him  what  he  thought  of  his 
venerable  p-p-p-p-pop,  he  could  be  seen  to  smile,  with 
the  naked  eye.  To  smile  that  jerky,  sudden-spreading, 
sudden-shrinking  smile  of  babyhood.  You  see  it, — 'tis 
gone!  Ah,  can  it  be  that  even  then  we  dimly  discern 
how  serious  a  world  this  is  to  be  born  into! 

Major  Frobisher's  battalion  was  in  front  of  Rich 
mond.  The  Don  and  I  were  under  General  Jubal 
Early,  in  the  lower  valley, — he  a  captain  in  command 
of  the  skirmishers  of  the  Stonewall  Division,  I  a  staff- 
officer  of  the  same  rank. 

I  know  nothing  which  makes  one's  morning  paper 
more  interesting  than  the  news  of  a  great  battle.  It's 
nice  to  read,  between  sips  of  coffee,  how  the  grape  and 
canister  mowed  'em  down ;  and  the  flashing  of  sabres 
is  most  picturesque,  and  bayonets  glitter  delightfully, 
in  the  columns  of  a  well-printed  journal.  Taking  a 
hand  in  it — that's  different.  Then  the  bodily  discom 
fort  and  mental  inanition  of  camp-life.  Thinking  is 
impossible.  This,  perhaps,  does  not  bear  hard  upon 
professionals,  with  whom,  for  the  most  part,  abstention 
from  all  forms  of  thought  is  normal  and  persistent ;  but 
to  a  civilian,  accustomed  to  give  his  faculties  daily  ex 
ercise,  the  routine-life  of  a  soldier  is  an  artesian  bore. 
So,  at  least,  I  found  it.  No  doubt,  with  us,  the  ever- 
present  consciousness  that  we  were  enormously  out 
numbered  made  a  difference.  One  boy,  attacked  by 
three  or  four,  may  be  plucky.  It  is  rather  too  much 
to  expect  him  to  be  gay.  I  was  not  gay. 

It  was  different  with  our  friend,  Captain  Smith.  He 
was  one  of  the  half-dozen  men  I  knew  in  those  days 
who  actually  rejoiced  in  wai\  He  longed  for  death, 

*  Is  this  the  language  of  a  bachelor  ? — Ed. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  423 

my  lovely  and  romantic  reader  is  anxious  to  be  told ; 
but  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  give  her  any  proofs  of  this.  It 
was  Attila's  gaudium  certaminis  that  inspired  him.  He 
was  never  tired  of  talking  of  war,  which,  with  Hobbes, 
he  held  to  be  the  natural  state  of  man.  At  any  rate, 
said  he,  one  day,  drawing  forth  his  Iliad  and  tapping 
it  affectionately,  they  have  been  hard  at  it  some  time. 

This  little  volume  was  on  its  last  legs.  He  had 
read  it  to  pieces,  and  could  recite  page  after  page  of  it 
in  the  original.  How  closely,  he  would  say,  we  skir 
mishers  resemble  the  forefighters  of  Homer.  He  never 
spoke  of  his  own  men  save  as  Myrmidons. 

He  had  become  an  ardent  student,  too,  of  the  art  of 
war,  and  had  Dumont  and  Jomini  at  his  fingers'  ends. 
Indeed,  I  am  convinced  that  he  would'  have  risen  to 
high  rank  had  he  not  begun,  and  for  two  years  re 
mained,  a  private  in  the  ranks.  At  the  time  of  which 
we  speak,  his  capacity  and  courage  were  beginning  to  at 
tract  attention ;  and  more  than  one  general  officer  looked 
upon  Captain  Smith  as  a  man  destined  to  rise  high. 

It  remains  for  me  to  say  that  he  and  Mary  have 
never  met  since  that  farewell  letter.  What  his  feelings 
are  towards  her  I  can  only  conjecture ;  for,  although 
he  frequently  speaks  of  the  old  times,  her  name  never 
passes  his  lips.  An  analytical  writer  could  tell  you 
every  thought  that  had  crossed  his  mind  during  all 
these  years,  and,  in  twenty  pages  of  Insight,  work  him 
up,  by  slow  degrees,  from  a  state  of  tranquil  bliss  to 
one  of  tumultuous  jimjams.  But,  if  you  wish  to  know 
what  my  characters  feel  and  think,  you  must  listen  to 
what  they  say,  and  see  what  they  do;  which  I  find  is 
the  only  way  I  have  of  judging  of  people  in  real  life. 
I  should  say,  therefore  (for  guessing  is  inexpensive), 
that  the  captain's  lips  were  sealed,  either  by  deep,  sor 
rowing  love,  or  else  by  implacable  resentment.  Choose 
for  yourself,  fair  reader.  I  told  you,  long  ago,  that  this 
book  is  but  the  record  of  things  seen  or  heard  by  Charley, 
or  by  Alice,  supplemented  occasionally  by  facts  which 
chanced  to  fall  under  my  own  observation.  Even  where 
I  seemed  to  play  analytical,  through  those  weary  chap 
ters  touching  Mary's  religious  misgivings,  I  was  not 


424  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

swerving  from  the  line  I  had  laid  down.  Every  word 
therein  written  down  is  from  the  lips  of  Mary  herself, 
as  reported  to  me  by  Alice.  Now,  Charley  tells  me 
that  never  once  did  Captain  Smith  mention  Mary's 
name,  even  to  him.  How,  then,  am  I  to  know  what 
were  his  feelings  towards  her?  I  remember,  indeed, 
that  once  a  young  lieutenant  of  his,  returning  from 
furlough,  greeted  him  with  warmth;  adding,  almost 
with  his  first  breath,  that  he  had  met  a  friend  of  his — a 
lady — in  Eichmond, — MissRolfe — Leigh  Street — I  spent 
an  evening  there — we  talked  a  great  deal  of  you — 

The  captain  touched  the  visor  of  his  cap. 

Here  was  a  chance  of  finding  out  what  he  thought  1 

"  She  said  she — she  said  she — " 

The  young -fellow  had  met  a  siren  during  his  fur 
lough,  and  fallen  horribly  in  love  himself  (as  he  told 
me,  a  few  moments  afterwards,  in  a  burst  of  confidence), 
and  would  willingly  have  invented  a  tender  phrase  for 
the  consolation  of  his  captain,  whom  he  adored ;  but 
truth  forbade. 

"  She  said  she  was  glad  to  hear  you  were  well." 

"  Miss  Rolfe  is  very  kind,"  replied  the  captain,  again 
touching  his  cap. 

The  young  officer  glanced  at  his  chief,  and  instantly 
fell  back  upon  the  weather.  "  I  think  there  is  a  storm 
brewing,"  he  faltered. 

"  Very  likely,"  replied  the  captain  of  the  Myrmidons. 


CHAPTER  LXVIL 

[LETTER   FROM   CAPTAIN   JOHN  SMITH  TO  MAJOR  CHARLES 
FROBISHER.] 

FISHER'S  HILL,  September  21,  1364. 

MY  DEAR  CHARLEY: 

Many  thanks  to  your  dear  wife  for  the  frequent  bul 
letins  she  has  found  time  to  send  me  in  the  intervals 
of  nursing  you,  getting  well  herself,  and  worshipping 
King  Charles  II.  Have  you  agreed  upon  a  namo  yet? 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIPF.    •  425 

Or,  rather,  has  Alice  settled  upon  one  ?  For  I  am  told 
women  claim  the  right  of  naming  the  first. 

Old  boy,  when  I  heard  that  a  bullet  had  gone  clean 
through  you  I  thought  I  had  seen  the  last  of  you ; 
and  here  you  are  on  your  pins  again !  A  far  slighter 
wound  would  have  sufficed  to  make  "  darkness  veil  the 
eyes"  of  the  stoutest  of  Homer's  heroes.  What  pin- 
scratches  used  to  send  them  to  Hades  1 

And  now,  Patroklus,  I  will  tell  you  why  I  refused, 
at  the  opening  of  the  war,  to  enter  the  same  company 
of  artillery  with  you.  Your  feelings  were  wounded  at 
the  time,  and  I  wanted  to  tell  you  why  I  was  so  obsti 
nate,  but  could  not.  To  confess  the  honest  truth,  I  had 
not  the  pluck  to  place  myself  where  I  might  have  to 
see  you  die  before  my  eyes.  It  would  have  been  differ 
ent  were  we  warring  around  Troy.  There,  I  could 
have  helped  you,  on  a  pinch,  and  you  me.  But  these 
winged  messengers  of  death,  who  can  ward  them  off, 
even  from  the  dearest  friend  I 

I  had  a  cruel  trial  in  last  week's  battle.  When  it 
became  necessary  to  order  Edmund's  company  to  ad 
vance,  my  heart  sank  within  me.  [Edmund  was  Mr. 
Poythress's  youngest  child,  a  lad  of  barely  sixteen  sum 
mers,  who  had  chafed  and  pined  till  he  had  wrung  from 
his  mother  a  tearful  consent  to  his  joining  the  army.] 
"  If  I  do  not  come  back,"  he  whispered  in  my  ear, 
"  tell  mother  that  her  '  baby'  was  man  enough  to  do  his 
duty, — for  I  am  going  to  do  it."  "  Your  company  is 
moving,"  I  replied,  in  as  stern  a  voice  as  I  could  mus 
ter  ;  for  I  felt  a  rush  of  tears  coming ;  and  he  bounded 
into  his  place.  I  have  seen  fair  women  in  my  day,  and 
lovely  landscapes,  and  noble  chargers  ;  but  never  have 
my  eyes  beheld  anything  so  surpassingly  beautiful  as 
that  ingenuous  boy  springing  forward,  under  a  rain 
of  bullets,  with  a  farewell  to  his  mother  on  his  lips,  and 
the  light  of  battle  on  his  brow.  I  held  my  breath  till 
he  disappeared  within  the  wood.  Why  is  it  that  we  all 
shudder  at  the  dangers  of  those  we  love,  and  yet  can 
be  calm  when  our  own  lives  hang  by  a  thread?  Is  it 
not  because,  while  we  know  that  the  loss  of  a  true 
friend  is  one  never  to  be  repaired,  and  which  casts  a 

36* 


426  .    THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

shadow  upon  our  lives  that  can  never  be  lifted  [Charley 
keeps  this  letter,  with  another  little  note;  which  you 
will  read  later  on,  in  a  blue  satin  case,  that  Alice  has 
embroidered  with  forget-me-nots.  He  showed  it  to  mo 
on  the  nineteenth  of  last  October.  The  satin  is  all 
faded  (and  spotted,  here  and  there)  but  time  has  not 
dulled  the  colors  of  the  flowers],  there  is  a  profound, 
though  veiled  conviction,  deep  down  in  the  heart  of 
hearts  of  all  of  us,  that,  as  for  ourselves,  it  were  better 
were  we  at  rest  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  it  is  only  the 
instinctive  fear  of  death,  which  we  share  with  the 
lower  animals,  and  that  conscience  which  makes  brave 
men,  not  cowards  of  us  all,  that  nerves  such  of  us  as 
have  the  cruel  gift  of  thought  to  bear  up  to  the  end, 
against  the  slings  and  arrows  of  the  most  favored  life, 
even.  But  it  is  a  shame  that  I  should  write  thus  to  a 
man  with  a  brand-new  baby ! 

I  cannot  picture  to  myself  Alice  as  a  mother; 
though,  thanks  to  her  graphic  pen,  I  have  a  very  clear 
conception  of  you  as  pater  familias.  I  have  laughed 
till  I  cried  over  her  accounts  of  you  sunning  the 
youngster  in  the  garden  while  the  nurse  was  at  her 
dinner,  and  the  way  you  held  him,  and  the  extraor 
dinary  observations  you  see  fit  to  make  to  him.  I 
can't  blame  him  for  smiling.  The  andante  in  Mozart's 
D  minor  quartet  is  very  beautiful;  but  never  did  I  ex 
pect  to  hear  of  Charles  Frobisher  extemporizing  words 
to  it  as  a  lullaby,  while  he  rocked  his  infant  to  sleep ! 

But  it  is  time  I  gave  you  some  account  of  our  late 
disastrous  battle  at  Winchester.  In  order  to  under 
stand  it,  you  must  have  before  your  mind  a  picture  of 
the  region  in  which  it  was  fought. 

The  valley  of  Virginia  is  a  narrow  ribbon  of  land,  as 
it  were,  stretching  diagonally  across  the  State,  between 
the  Blue  Ridge  and  Alleghany  Mountains.  As  its 
fertility  attracted  settlers  at  an  early  date,  its  forests 
have  mostly  fallen  years  ago.  This  is  especially  true 
of  the  region  around  Winchester,  which  is  situated  in 
the  midst  of  a  broad,  fertile  plain, .broken  by  rolling 
hills,  crowned,  here  and  there,  by  the  fair  remains  of 
singularly  noble  forests.  One  would  say,  standing 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  .  427 

upon  an  eminence,  and  surveying  the  smiling  land- 
scape,  that-this  lovely  plain  was  fashioned  by  the  hand 
of  the  Creator  as  the  abode  of  plenty  and  eternal  peace. 
Yet  a  poet,  remembering  that  it  is  not  peace,  but  war 
that  man  loves,  could  not,  in  his  dreams,  picture  to  him 
self  a  more  beautiful  battle-field.  And  if  I  have  to  fall, 
may  it  be  on  one  of  thy  sunny  slopes,  valiant  little 
Winchester ;  and  may  the  last  thing  my  eyes  behold 
be  the  handkerchiefs  waving  from  thy  housetops.  Such 
women  are  worth  dying,  yes,  even  worth  living  for. 

Observe,  therefore,  that  the  plains  of  Winchester  are 
admirably  adapted  for  the  rapid  and  intelligent  ma 
noeuvring  of  large  masses  of  troops.  Artillery,  infan 
try,  cavalry, — every  arm  of  the  service  may  move  in 
any  direction  with  perfect  facility.  And  I  need  not 
tell  an  old  soldier  that  such  a  field  gives  overwhelming 
advantage  to  a  greatly  superior  force.  When  a  gen 
eral,  as  his  troops  advance  to  the  attack,  can  see  just 
where  the  enemy  are,  and  how  far  they  extend, — can 
see  their  reserves  hurrying  forward,  and  knows  that 
when  they  are  all  hotly  engaged  he  can  push  heavy 
masses  of  fresh  troops  around  both  flanks,  and  attack 
in  the  rear  men  who  are  already  outnumbered  in  front, 
what  can  save  the  weaker  army  from  annihilation? 
And  yet,  on  the  nineteenth  of  this  month,  Early's  little 
army  of  ten  thousand  troops  withstood,  in  front  of 
Winchester,  in  the  open  field,  without  breastworks, 
from  dawn  till  late  in  the  afternoon,  the  assaults  of 
forty  thousand  of  the  enemy.  [Note. — This  is  an  error 
on  the  part  of  the  captain,  but  I  retain  his  statement 
of  the  numbers  engaged,  just  as  he  gives  them,  simply 
to  show  what  was  the  universal  belief  of  our  soldiers 
at  the  time, — that  they  were  outnumbered  four  to  one. 
The  true  figures  show  that  Early  had  fifteen  thousand, 
Sheridan  forty-five  thousand  men, — or  only  three  to 
one.  J.  B.  W.~\  *  How  a  solitary  man  of  us  escaped  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  understand. 

Possibly  you  have  not  seen  in  the  papers  that  on  the 


*  See  Geo.  A.  Pond's  "  Shenandoah  Valley  Campaigns,"  if  more  minute 
accuracy  is  desired. — Ed. 


428  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

seventeenth  Early  sent  our  division  down  the  valley  to 
Martinsburg  (twenty-two  miles)  to  make  a  reconnois- 
sance.  We  did  a  little  skirmishing  there,  and  on  the 
next  day  encamped,  on  our  return,  at  a  place  called 
Bunker's  Hill, — named,  I  presume,  in  honor  of  the 
Bunker's  Hill  on  which  Boston,  with  a  magnanimity 
unparalleled  in  history,  has  erected  an  imposing  monu 
ment  to  commemorate  the  gallant  storming  of  Breed's 
Hill  by  the  British.  Here  we  lay  down  to  rest.  I 
will  not  say  to  sleep ;  for  never,  since  the  beginning  of 
the  war,  had  I  felt  so  profoundly  anxious.  Picture  to 
yourself  our  situation. 

There  we  were,  twelve  miles  down  the  valley,  twenty- 
five  hundred  men  ;  while,  near  Berryville,  over  against 
our  main  body  of  about  eight  thousand  men  at  Win 
chester,  lay  an  army  forty  thousand  strong.  Suppose 
Sheridan  should  attack  in  our  absence  ?  True,  Early 
had  marched  over  to  Berryville,  a  few  days  before,  and 
offered  him  battle  in  vain.  But  suppose  he  did  attack? 
Could  he  not  in  an  hour's  time  (for  forty  thousand 
against  eight  is  rather  too  much)  drive  Early's  force 
pell-mell  across  the  pike,  and,  with  his  immense  force 
of  cavalry,  capture  the  last  man  he  had  ?  And  then  we 
would  have  nothing  to  do  but  march  up  the  valley,  like 
a  covey  of  partridges,  into  a  net. 

Such  were  the  thoughts  which  flashed  across  my 
mind,  with  painful  intensity,  at  dawn  next  morning. 
Weary  with  anxious  thinking,  I  had  fallen  to  sleep  at 
last.  The  boom  of  a  cannon  swept  down  from  Win 
chester.  We  are  lost,  was  my  first  thought.  Our 
army  will  be  annihilated.  Sheridan  will  set  out  on  his 
march  to  the  rear  of  Richmond  to-morrow  morning. 

I  rose  without  a  word,  as  did  others  around  me,  and 
completed  my  toilet  by  buckling  on  my  sword  and 
pistols.  There,  on  my  blanket,  lay  Edmund,  sleeping 
the  sweet,  deep  sleep  of  boyhood.  I  could  hardly 
make  up  my  mind  to  arouse  him.  "  Get  up,"  said  I, 
touching  his  shoulder;  "they  are  fighting  at  Win 
chester."  "  They  are !"  cried  he,  leaping  to  his  feet. 
The  gaudium  ceriaminis  was  in  his  eyes.  The  boy  is 
every  inch  a  soldier. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  429 

We  hurried  up  the  turnpike  without  thinking  of 
breakfast,  the  roar  of  the  battle  growing  louder  as 
we  advanced.  Edmund  chattered  the  whole  way, 
asking  me,  again  and  again,  whether  I  thought  it 
would  be  all  over  before  we  got  there.  He  had  not 
yet  been  in  a  battle,  and  was  full  of  eager  courage.  I 
told  him  I  thought  he  would  have  a  chance  at  them, 
though  I  actually  thought  that  all  would  be  over  before 
we  reached  the  ground.  And  what  do  you  suppose  we 
learned  as  we  neared  the  field  ?  That  Eamseur,  with 
his  twelve  hundred  men  covering  our  front  with  hardly 
more  than  a  skirmish  line,  had  held  in  check  the  heavy 
masses  of  the  enemy  all  this  time !  They  had  been  at 
tacked  at  dawn  ;  we  had  marched  twelve  miles ;  and 
there  they  were  still,  Eamseur  and  his  heroic  little 
band  of  North  Carolinians.  And  I  single  out  the  North 
Carolinians  by  name,  not  so  much  because  of  their  cour 
age,  as  of  their  modesty. 

Well,  we  were  beaten  that  day,  and  badly  beaten. 
That  we  were  not  annihilated  is  what  I  cannot  com 
prehend.  And  why  we  are  allowed  to  rest  here  and 
recuperate,  with  a  vastly  superior  army,  flushed  with 
victory,  in  our  front,  is  equally  difficult  to  understand. 
Why  were  we  not  attacked  at  dawn  next  day  ?  Yet, 
that  he  has  not  done  so  does  not  surprise  me,  alter 
what  I  saw  of  his  generalship  at  the  close  of  the  late 
battle.  Put  yourself  beside  me,  and  see  what  I  saw  on 
the  afternoon  of  September  19th. 

We  are  standing  on  an  open  hill,  just  in  rear  of  where 
our  troops  have  fought  so  stubbornly  the  livelong  day. 
Where  is  our  army  ?  It  no  longer  exists.  It  has  been 
hammered  to  pieces.  Here  and  there  you  see  a  man 
slowly  retiring,  and  loading  his  rifle  as  he  falls  back. 
Every  now  and  then  he  turns  and  fires.  One  here,  and 
one  there, — this  is  all  the  army  we  have. 

Now  look  over  there,  at  that  field,  to  the  left  of  the 
position  lately  held  by  us.  Those  are  the  enemy's 
skirmishers,  advancing  from  a  wood.  Their  long  line 
stretches  far  away,  and  is  lost  to  view  behind  that  rise 
in  the  hill.  At  whom  are  they  firing  ?  Heaven  knows, 
for  there  is  no  enemy  in  their  front.  And  now  the 


430  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

dense  masses  of  their  infantiy  appear,  in  rear  of  tht 
skirmishers,  and  glide  slowly  across  the  hill,  like  the 
shadow  of  a  black  cloud.  Come,  Edmund,  cheer  up, 
and  have  a  crack  at  them.  (The  boy  is  standing  apart, 
his  powder-begrimed  face  streaked  with  decorous  tears.) 
Set  your  sight  at  six  hundred  yards.  Come  here,  and 
let  me  give  you  a  rest  on  my  hip.  Yes,  the  man  with 
the  flag.  Ah,  you  have  made  a  stir  among  them.  The 
line  moves  on,  but  one  man  lies  stretched  upon  the  field, 
with  two  others  kneeling  beside  him.  There  is  the 
making  of  a  sharpshooter  in  the  boy ! 

And  what  ponderous  form  is  this~that  comes  towards 
us,  limping  and  disconsolate?  'Tis  our  friend  Jack. 
He,  I  need  hardly  tell  you,  * 


But  he  lost  heart  when  his  powerful  charger  fell  be 
neath  him,  disembowelled  by  a  cannon-ball.  Poor 
Bucephalus!  He  had  carried  him  through  twenty 
battles  as  though  he  were  a  feather;  and  where  was 
he  to  find  another  horse  that  could  carry  him  at  all! 
(Edmund  tells  a  good  story  of  Jack.  He  says  that 
while  he  stood  lamenting  the  death  of  his  valiant  steed, 
one  of  our  advancing  brigades,  first  staggering  under 
the  heavy  fire,  then  halting,  were  beginning  to  give 
way.  "Boys,"  cried  Jack  (he  will  have  his  joke), 
"  boys,  follow  me !  If  they  can't  hit  me,  they  can't  hit 
anybody!"  Edmund  says  that  some  of  the  soldiers 
laughed;  and  that  as  they  followed  the  burly  captain 
he  heard  one  of  them  say  to  his  neighbor,  "  Mind  now ; 
if  they  do  hit  him,  I  claim  his  breeches  as  a  winter- 
quarters  tent.") 

Look,  now,  at  those  dark  masses,  halted  in  full  view 
on  that  rising  ground  to  our  right.  They  are  as  near 
Winchester  as  we  are.  What  are  they  doing  there  ? 
Surely  they  can  see  that  there  are  no  troops  between 
themselves  and  the  town!  Why  do  they  not  go  and 
take  it?  Can  it  be  their  advance  has  been  checked  by 
the  stray  shots  of  a  score  of  retreating  sharpshooters  ? 

Now  turn  and  look  a  mile  away,  to  our  left.  See 
that  dense  cloud  of  dust,  lit  up  with  the  flashing  of 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  431 

carbine-shots,  the  gleaming  of  sabres,  and  the  glare  of 
bursting  shells!  There,  along  the  pike,  our  handful 
of  cavalry,  struggling  bravely  with  overwhelming  odds, 
is  falling  back  upon  the  town.  Come.  Edmund,  there 
is  no  use  staying  here  any  longer.  Yes,  I  think  they 
will  get  there  before  us.  Pluck  up  your  spirits,  my 
boy ;  a  true  soldier  shows  best  in  adversity. 

I  have  not  tried,  my  dear  Charley,  to  give  you  a  mili 
tary  account  of  this  battle.  I  have  striven,  instead,  to 
lay  before  you  a  picture  of  the  field  as  it  appeared  when 
Edmund,  Jack,  and  I  sadly  turned  towards  Winchester. 
It  was  then  the  middle  of  the  afternoon.  Would  you 
believe  that  we  reached  the  town  in  safety, — entered  a 
house,  whose  fair  inmates  gave  us  bread  (it  was  all — 
almost  more  than  all  they  had), — retired,  afterwards, 
up  the  pike,  along  which  our  soldiers  straggled  in  twos 
and  threes, — went  into  camp, — arose  next  morning, — 
and  made  our  way  to  Fisher's  Hill?  And  here  we  are 
still,  resting  as  quietly  as  though  no  enemy  were  in  our 
front ! 

I  have  known  men  to  leave  the  gaming-table,  after 
a  big  run  of  luck,  so  as  to  spend  their  winnings  before 
the  tide  turned.  Perhaps  our  friends  the  enemy  wish 
to  enjoy  their  glory  awhile  before  risking  the  loss  of  it 

in  another  battle;  but  it  isn't  war. 
*****         *         *         *         *        * 

*****          *          **** 

Yours,  ever, 

DORY. 


CHAPTER  LXVIII. 

"  JACK,"  said  Alice,  "  every  time  I  read  this  letter  of 
poor  Dory's,  I  find  it  hai'der  to  understand  how  General 
Sheridan  has  so  high  a  reputation  in  the  North  as  a 
soldier.  Can  you  explain  it  ?" 

"  I  cannot,"  I  replied,  thumping  the  table  fiercely 
with  my  fist ;  for  every  Whacker  molecule  in  me  stood 
on  end. 

"I  can,"  put  in  Charley,  in  his  dry  way. 


432  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

I  turned  and  fixed  my  eyes  on  that  philosopher.  His 
were  fixed  upon  the  ceiling.  His  head  rested  upon  the 
back  of  his  chair,  his  legs  (they  are  stoutish  now)  were 
stretched  across  another. 

"  The  deuse  you  can !"  for  my  sturdy  Saxon  atoms 
•were  in  arms. 

Charley  removed  his  solid  limbs  from  the  chair  in 
front  of  him,  with  the  effort  and  grunt  of  incipient  obes 
ity  [incipient  obesity  indeed  I  and  from  you  I  whe-e-eu?  / 
Alice},  and,  walking  up  to  the  mantel-piece,  rested  both 
arms  upon  it  at  full  length ;  then,  tilting  his  short  pipe 
at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  he  surveyed  me  with  a 
smile  of  amiable  derision.  ''  Yes,  I  can,"  said  he,  at  last. 
And  with  each  word  the  short  pipe  nodded  conviction. 

"  Do  it,  then,"  said  I. 

"  I  will,"  said  he.  And  diving  down  into  his  pocket, 
he  drew  forth  a  manuscript;  and  striking  an  attitude, 
and  placing  his  glasses  (eheu,  fugaces,  Postume,  Postume, 
labuntur  anni)  upon  his  oratorical  nose,  he  unfolded  the 
paper.  Clearing  his  throat: 

"HANNIBAL!"  began  he,  in  thunder-tones;  then, 
dropping  suddenly  into  his  usual  soft  voice,  and  letting 
fall  his  right  hand  containing  the  paper  to  the  level  of 
his  knee, — "this,"  he  added,  peering  gravely  at  us  over 
his  spectacles,  "is  my  Essay  on  Military  Glory!" 

Alice  made  herself  comfortable,  and  spread  out  her 
fan  ;  for  laughing  makes  her  warm  nowadays. 

Had  she  any  right  to  look  for  humor  in  an  essay  by 
her  husband  ?  Look  at  her  own  chapter  on  the  loves 
of  Mary  and  the  Don.  A  more  sentimental  perform 
ance  I  never  read.  Show  me  a  trace  therein,  if  you 
can,  of  witty,  sparkling  Alice  of  the  merry-glancing 
hazel  eyes !  Look,  for  the  matter  of  that,  at  this  book 
of  mine.  Why,  the  other  day,  glancing  over  the  proofs* 
of  a  certain  chapter,  and  forgetting  for  the  moment,  as 
I  read  the  printed  page,  that  I  had  written  it,  would 
you  believe  it,  my  eyes  filled  with  tears  ?  (And  a  big 
one  rolled  down  so  softly  that  I  started  when  it  struck 

*  Mr.  Whacker  must  mean  that  he  intended  "  glancing  over  the  proofs. ** 
— Ed. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  433 

the  paper.)  Is  this,  cried  I,  the  jolly  book  that  my 
friends  expect  of  me?  Alas,  fair  reader,  fellow-pilgrim 
through  this  valley  of  shadows,  1  trust  full  many  a 
sun-streak  may  fall  across  your  path.  As  for  me, — I 
can  only  sing  the  song  that  is  given  me. 


CHAPTEK  LXIX. 

[Being  an  Essay  on  Military  Glory ;  by  Charles  Frobisher,  Esquire, 
M.A.  (Univ.  Va.),-  late  Major  of  Artillery  C.  S.  A. 

Omnibus,  mentis  compotibus,  SKIPIENDUM,  utpote  quod  TINKERII  MOLEM 

KON  VALEAT.] 

CHARLEY  shifted  his  manuscript  to  his  left  hand,  and 
smoothing  down  the  leaves  with  his  right,  and  glancing 
at  the  paper,  raised  his  eyes  to  mine.  The  tip  of  his 
forefinger,  placed  lightly  against  the  tip  of  his  nose, 
lent  to  that  organ  an  air  of  rare  subtlety. 

"A  julep,"  he  began,  "differs  from  a  thought  in  this: 
that  while—" 

"  A  julep !"  cried  Alice ;  "  why,  just  now  you  began 
with  Hannibal." 

Charley  stood  for  a  moment,  smiling,  as  he  toyed 
with  the  leaves  of  his  essay  with  the  forefinger  of  his 
right  hand. 

"  True ;  I  had  turned  the  thing  upside  down,  and 
was  reading  it  backwards.  A  julep,"  he  began  again, 
with  an  authoritative  air — 

"What  connection," interrupted  Alice,  "can  there  be 
between  juleps  and  military  men  ?" 

"Innocence,"  ejaculated  Charley,  raising  his  eyes  to 
heaven,  "  thy  name  is  Alice !" 

"  Go  on  ;  I  shall  not  interrupt  you  again." 

"A  julep  differs  from  a  thought  in  this:  that  while 
an  average  man  goes  to  the  bottom  of  the  former,  of 
the  latter  only  philosophers  can  sound  the  depths." 
"With  that  he  sat  down. 

"  Is  that  the  end  of  your  Essay  on  Military  Glory  ?" 
I  asked. 

"No.  That  is  the  first  round.  I  call  for  time.  I 
T  cc  37 


434  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

am  exhausted  by  the  vastness  of  the  generalization." 
And  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  he  closed  his  eyes  with  a 
sigh  of  profound  lassitude.  "  My  dear,"  said  he,  pres 
ently,  in  a  feeble  whisper, — "  my  dear,  don't  you  think 
this  lecture  would  go  off  better  were  it  illustrated  ?" 

Alice  looked  puzzled  for  a  moment,  then  rose  with  a 
bright  laugh,  and,  making  a  pass  at  Charley  (who 
minds  Jack  ?)  which  he  dodged,  tripped  briskly  out  of 
the  room. 

" Charley,"  said  I,  "you  are  a  boundless  idiot !" 

"  Too  true ;  but  there  is  method  in  my  madness." 
•which  I  found  to  be  so  when  Alice  (who  could  have 
wished  a  more  charming  waitress  ?)  returned  with  the 
illustrations. 

Illustrations  in  the  highest  form  of  art;  for  they  ap 
pealed  to  the  ear  with  the  soft  music  of  their  jingle,  the 
nostrils  by  their  fragrance,  the  touch  by  their  coldness, 
to  the  eye  by  the  fascinating  contrast  of  cracked  ice 
and  vivid  green  ;  while  the  imagination,  soaring  above 
the  regions  of  sense,  beheld  within  those  frosted  gob 
lets,  jocund,  blooming  summer  seated  in  the  lap  of 
rimy  winter, — or  the  triumph  of  man  over  nature. 

Ole  Virginny  nebber  tire ! 

"  What  kind  of  an  idiot  did  you  say  ?"  said  Charley, 
as  we  chinked  glasses. 

"  I  couldn't  find  any  straws,"  said  Alice. 

"I  accept  your  apology,"  said  Charley.  His  voice 
sounded  soft,  mellow,  and  far  away ;  for  his  nose  was 
plunged  beneath  a  mass  of  crushed  ice.  "Straws," 
added  he,  growing  magnanimous,  "  they  are  only  fit  to 
show  which  way  the  wind  blows."  And  with  a  mag 
nificent  sweep  of  his  left  hand  he  indicated  his  disdain 
for  all  possible  atmospheric  currents.  "  Ladies  and 
gentlemen,"  added  he,  as  he  rose  from  his  seat ;  and 
this  time  there  was  an  indescribable  jumble  in  the  voice 
of  the  orator — (not  at  all,  Mr.  Teetotaller !  'twas  caused 
by  the  cracked  ice), — for  as  Charley  rose  to  continue  the 
reading  of  his  Essay  on  Military  Glory,  he  had  pointed 
the  stem  of  his  goblet  at  the  ceiling;  striving,  at  the 
same  time,  by  a  skilful  adjustment  of  his  features,  to 
prevent  its  contents  from  falling  on  the  floor, — such 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  435 

great  store  did  Alice  set  by  her  new  carpet.  But,  of 
course,  when  he  opened  his  mouth  to  say  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  a  baby  avalanche  fell  in  upon  his  organs  of 
speech ;  so  that  he  didn't  manage  to  say  anything  of 
the  kind.  "  That,"  said  he,  placing  the  glass  upon  the 
table,  "  will  do  as  a  vignette ;  the  illustrations  we  shall 
contrive  to  work  in  farther  on." 

One  julep  gives  Charley  the  swagger  of  a  four-bottle 
man. 

"  Where  was  I  ?"  asked  he,  drawing  the  manuscript 
from  his  pocket.  "I'll  begin  again.  HANNIBAL! 
No,  confound  itl  Ah,  here  we  are:  "An  average  man 
has  strength  to  go  to  the  bottom  of  a  julep ;  only  a 
philosopher  can  sound  the  depth  of  a  thought." 

At  these  words  Alice  rose  from  her  seat,  and,  leaning 
forward,  first  fixed  a  scrutinizing  glance  upon  her  hus 
band,  then  advanced  towards  him  with  a  twinkle  in 
her  merry -glancing  hazel  eye. 

"If  half  the  audience,"  said  Charley,  with  an  im 
perious  wave  of  the  hand,  "  will  persist  in  wandering 
over  the  floor,  the  reading  is  suspended." 

Alice  took  her  seat,  and  did  nothing  but  laugh  till 
the  end  of  the  chapter.  I  laughed,  too,  but  without 
exactly  knowing  why.  But  laughter  (singularly  enough, 
— for  it  is  a  blessing)  is  contagious.  And  then  the 
julep  had  been  stiff;  so  that  the  very  tables  and  chairs 
about  the  room  seemed  to  beam  upon  me  with  a  certain 
twinkling,  kindly  Bushwhackerishness.* 

"  Here's  a  lot  of  stuff  that  I  shall  skip,"  began  Char 
ley  ;  and  he  turned  over,  with  careless  finger,  leaf  after 
leaf.  As  he  did  so  Alice  rose  slightly  from  her  seat 
with  a  peering  look. 

"Who  is  reading  this  Essay  on  Military  Glory?" 
asked  Charley,  with  a  severe  look  at  his  wife  over  his 
glasses  (alas,  alas,  nee pietas  moramf). 

"  Very  well ;  go  on,"  said  Alice,  dropping  back  into 
her  chair  with  a  fresh  burst  of  laughter.  She  had  had 
no  julep.  What  was  she  laughing  at  ? 

*  I  need  hardly  say  that  I  decline  to  be  responsible  for  such  seiiti- 
ments. — Ed. 


436  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  It  consists  (my  opening)  of  a  series  of  illustrations, 
showing  how  much  nonsense  comes  to  be  believed 
through  people's  not  going  to  the  bottom  of  things.  We 
suppose  ourselves  to  have  an  opinion  (there  is  no  com 
moner  delusion),  but  we  fail  to  subject  that  opinion  to 
any  crucial  test ;  though  nothing  is  easier.  The  crucial 
test,  for  example,  of  sulphuretted  hydrogen,  is  a  certain 
odor  which  we  encounter,  when,  with  incautious  toe, 
we  explode  an  egg  in  some  outlying  nest  which  no 
boy  could  find  during  the  summer — " 

"  That  will  do,"  said  Alice ;  though  why  women 
should  turn  up  their  blessed  little  noses  at  such  allu 
sions  is  hard  to  understand,  seeing  what  keen  and  tri 
umphant  pleasure  they  all  derive  from  the  detection  of 
unparliamentary  odors  at  unexpected  times  and  places. 

"  I  have  here,"  continued  Charley,  carelessly  turning 
the  leaves  of  his  manuscript,  "  a  nestful  of  such  illus 
trations." 

"  We  will  excuse  you  from  hatching  them  in  our  pres 
ence,"  said  Alice ;  and  with  wrinkled  nose  she  disdain 
fully  sniffed  a  supposititious  egg  of  abandoned  character. 

"I  have  already  passed  them  over.  After  all,  what 
is  the  use  of  them  ?  You  and  Charley  can  understand 
what  I  mean  without  them ;  and  if  you  can,  why  not 
the  reader,  too  ?  Are  readers  idiots  ?  I'll  plunge  in 
medias  res.  Let  us  begin  here :"  (reading)  "  It  is  the  same 
with  military  glory.  How  many  battles  have  been 
fought  since  the  world  began  ?  Arithmetic  stands  pale 
in  the  presence  of  such  a  question !  In  every  one  of 
these  conflicts  one  or  the  other  commander  had  the 
advantage.  How  many  of  them  are  famous?  Count 
them.  For  every  celebrated  general  that  you  show 
me,  I  will  show  you  a  finger — or  a  toe — " 

"  You  are  too  anatomical  by  half,"  protested  Alice. 

"  Why  is  this  ?  Think  for  a  moment  ?  Why  is  this 
victor  famous,  that  victor  not  ?  It  is  the  simplest  thing 
in  the  world  if  you  will  but  apply  the  crucial  test." 

Charley  paused  in  his  reading  and  peered  gravely 
over  his  glasses.  "  What  is  it,  goose  ?"  asked  his  ad 
miring  spouse. 

"  The  crucial  test  is  disparity  of  numbers.    Formulae : 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  437 

equality,  victory,  obscurity, — disparity,  victory,  glory. 
There  you  have  it  in  a  nutshell.  Example  (from  Gib 
bon's  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Eoman  Empire):  imperator 
of  the  West  and  imperator  of  the  East,  battling,  with 
the  world  as  a  stake.  Innumerable  but  equal  hosts. 
Days  of  hacking  and  hewing.  Victory  to  him  of  the 
East  (or  West).  His  name?  Have  forgotten  it.  Equality, 
victory,  obscurity! 

"  See  ?  By  the  way,  Jack,  does  not  the  brevity  of  my 
military  style  rather  smack  of  Csesar's  Commentaries  ? 

"Again — scene,  Syria.  Christians  of  the  Byzantine 
empire,  and  Mahometans.  Final  struggle.  Vast  but 
equal  armies.  Three  days  of  carnage.  Eemnant  of 
Christians  decline  crown  of  glory.  Name  of  victor  ? 
I  pause  ? — and  so  on,  and  so  on,  and  so  on. 

"  But  now,  per  contra,  read,  by  the  light  of  our 
hypothesis,  the  following : 

PARADIGM   OF   GLORY. 

Nominative  Napoleon          Italy            disparity  victory  glory 

Genitive  CaBsar               Pharsalia        ditto          ditto  ditto 

Dative  Alexander        Persia              ditto          ditto  ditto 

Accusative  Zengis  Khan    Asia                 ditto          ditto  ditto 

Vocative  Sheridan           Winchester     ditto          ditto  ditto 

Ablative  Hannibal — " 

"  Ah,  you  have  gotten  to  him  at  last,"  said  Alice. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  said  Charley,  raising  his  eyes  from 
the  manuscript ;  "  but  the  vignettes  grow  dim.  Let's 
have  an  illustration  in  honor  of  the  victor  of  Cannae. 
Let  there  be  lots  of  ice  as  a  memorial  of  the  avalanches 
he  defied,  piled  mountain-high  because  of  the  Alps  he 
overcame.  Typify  with  mint  the  glorious  verdure  of 
Italy  as  it  first  bursts  upon  his  view." 

Alice  typified — 

*****          *          **** 
*****          *          **** 

"  After  all,"  said  Charley,  "  this  is  a  pretty  good  old 
world  to  live  in."  And  he  fillipped,  gently,  the  rim  of 
his  goblet  with  his  middle  finger.  (Ching!  chingl) 

37* 


438  THE  STORP  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"It  was  B  flat  when  it  was  full,  and  now  (ching! 
ching!)  it  is  a  good  C  sharp.  Listen  I"  And  shutting 
one  eye,  he  cocked  the  other  meditatively  towards  the 
ceiling.  (Ching!  ching!)  "Acoustics  or  something, 
I  suppose.  A  pretty  good  old  world,  I  tell  you,  boys. 
(Ching!  ching!)  H'm  !  h'm  !  h'm!"  It  was  a  low, 
contented  chuckle.  "  Jack-Whack,  you  ought  to  have 
a  sweet  little  darling  of  a  wife,  just  like — " 
"  Mr.  Frobisher,  you  are  positively  boozy !" 
"Well,  well,  my  precious  little  ducky  dumpling,  I 
don't  write  Essays  on  Military  Glory  every  day.  H'm  ! 
h'm !  h'm !  h'm  1  I  left  out  my  very  best  illustration, 
simply  because  I  couldn't  work  it  into  my  paradigm. 
It  is  a  little  poem  I  heard  once, — h'm !  h'm !  h'm !  h'm ! 
(Ching!  ching!) 

'  Dad  and  Jamie  bad  a  fight, 
They  fit  all  day,  and  they  fit  all  night ; 
And  in  the  mornin'  Dad  was  seen 
A-punchin'  Jamie  on  the  Bowlin'  Green.' 

"  One  would  say,  taking  the  four  lines  together,  that 
Dad  probably  got  the  better  of  Jamie  in  the  end.  But 
who  thinks  of  ranking  him,  for  that  reason,  with  the 
world's  famed  conquerors  ?  Preposterous  !  They  were 
obviously  too  evenly  matched.  See?  No  one  knows, 
even,  who  Dad  was,  or  Jamie ;  or  what  Bowlin'  Green 
drank  their  gore.  (Ching!  ching!)  D  natural.  Nor 
even  the  name  of  the  poet.  Some  old,  old  Aryan  myth, 
I  suppose,  symbolizing  the  struggle  between  Light  and 
Darkness, — '  in  the  morning  Dad' — the  sun — '  was  seen 
a-punchin'  Jamie' — moon,  of  course — '  on  the  Bowlin' 
Green,' — that  is,  this  beautiful  world.  (Ching!  ching!) 
What  are  you  up  to  ?" 

Alice  had  made  a  dive  at  Charley,  who,  mistaking 
her  object,  defended  himself  vigorously.  Meantime, 
she  had  darted  with  her  right  hand  down  into  his 
'breast-pocket,  drawing  out  the  manuscript. 

"  If  you  supposed  I  wished  to  kiss  your  juleppy 
moustache,  you  are  much  mistaken.  This  is  what  I 
wanted."  And  she  brandished  the  Essay  high  in  the 
air  in  triumph.  "I  knew  it  I  I  knew  it!"  cried  she. 
"  Listen,  Jack  1" 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  439 

"  '  BALTIMORE,  August  14,  1885. 

" '  CHARLES  FROBISHER,  ESQ.  : 

"  '  Dear  Sir, — '  The  guano  will  be  shipped  by  to-mor- 
row's  boat,  as  per  valued  order. 

"  '  Very  truly  yours, 

"'  BUMPKINS  &  WINDUP.' 

"  And  look  here — and  look  here, — nothing  but  a  lot 
of  business  letters.  He  has  not  written  one  line !  His 
so-called  Essay  on  Military  Glory  is  a  myth !" 

"  We  got  the  juleps,  at  any  rate.  Jack- Whack,  you 
write  it  up." 

"  If  Alice  will  agree  to  illustrate  again." 

"Not  I!" 

"Q  minor!"  sighed  Charley,  thumping  his  empty 
goblet.  "Jack-Whack,  my  poor  boy,  we  dwell  in  a 
vale  of  tears  1" 


CHAPTEK  LXX. 

IT  is  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  at  Harrisonburg, 
in  the  leafy  month  of  June.  You  board  the  train  from 
Staunton.  As  it  rushes  down  the  Valley  there  lies 
spread  out  before  you,  on  either  side,  a  scene  of  rare 
loveliness.  Fertile  plains,  waving  with  grain  ;  rolling, 
grass-clad  hills,  laughing  in  the  sunshine,  dotted  here 
and  there  with  woods  of  singular  beauty ;  limpid 
streams,  brawling  over  glittering,  many-hued  pebbles; 
a  pure  air  filling  the  lungs  with  a  glad  sense  of  health 
and  well-being.  There  are  few  such  lands. 

But  come,  take  this  seat  on  the  right-hand  side  of 
the  car,  and  I  will  tell  you  of  some  things  which  hap 
pened  twenty  years  ago. 

Ah,  there  it  is !  Don't  you  see  that  bluish  thread, 
winding  along  over  there,  skirting  that  hill?  That  is 
the  Valley  Pike.  There  was  no  railroad  there  then. 
Take  a  good  look  at  it.  Take  a  good  look,  for  heroes 
have  trodden  it. 

Ah,  the  train  has  stopped.     Do  you  see  that  grizzled 


440  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

farmer,  who  has  ridden  over  to  the  station  to  get  his 
mail?  I  know  him,  for  I  never  forget  a  face.  He  was 
there  at  Manassas  when  Bee  said,  "  Look  at  Jackson, 
standing  like  a  stone  wall !"  Yes,  many  of  the  sur 
vivors  of  the  Stonewall  -Brigade  live  along  this  road. 

That  is  the  Massanutten  Mountain,  a  spur  of  the 
Blue. Ridge.  How  beautiful  it  is!  Straight  and  smooth 
and  even,  with  a  little  notch  every  now  and  then ; 
clothed  from  base  to  summit  with  primeval  forests,  it 
looks,  crested  as  it  is  hero  and  there  with  snowy  clouds, 
like  a  gigantic  green  wave  rolling  across  the  plain. 

A  wall  not  unlike  this  once  stood  on  either  hand  in 
the  Red  Sea;  and  Miriam  smote  her  tambourine  in 
triumph,  praising  the  God  of  Israel. 

As  we  rush  along,  the  mountain  bears  us  company, 
as  though  doing  the  honors  of  the  Valley. 

The  train  stops  at  Strasburg.  There,  too,  Massa 
nutten  ends. 

As  though  a  Titan  had  cleft  it  with  his  sword,  so 
abruptly  does  it  sink  into  the  plain. 

You  are  on  your  way  to  Alexandria,  and  will  have 
to  wait  here  four  hours ;  so  let  us  look  about  us.  Run 
your  eye  up  that  sharp  acclivity  lying  over  against  the 
town. 

Upon  the  brink  of  that  steep,  twenty  years  ago, 
stood  Gordon.  Accompanied  by  a  few  staff-officers,  he 
had  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  day  in  the  toilsome 
ascent,  tearing  his  way  through  dense,  pathless  jungles, 
struggling  among  untrodden  rocks ;  and  now,  on  the 
seventeenth  of  October,  1864,  he  stands  there  sweeping 
the  plain  with  his  field-glass.  What  does  he  see?  Why 
does  he  forget,  in  an  instant,  his  fatigue?  What  is  it 
that  fires  with  ardor  his  martial  face  ? 

But  before  I  tell  you  that,  a  word  with  you. 

In  the  South,  at  the  breaking  out  of  the  war,  there 
was  not  to  be  found  one  solitary  statesman ;  nor  one 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  North.  Not 
that  capacity  was  lacking  to  either  side.  Great  capacity 
is  not  required.  Chesterfield  heard  the  rumble  of  the 
coming  French  revolution,  to  which  the  ears  of  Burke 
were  deaf.  After  all,  statecraft  is  but  the  application 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  441 

of  temporary  expedients  to  temporary  emergencies; 
and  you  might  carve  a  score  of  Gladstones  and  Dis 
raelis  out  of  the  brain  of  Herbert  Spencer  without  in 
the  least  impairing  his  cerebrum.  Pericles  shone  in 
Athens  for  an  hour ;  Aristotle  dominated  the  world  for 
twenty  centuries.  Such  is  the  measure  of  a  states 
man  ;  such  that  of  a  thipker. 

Statesmen,  therefore  (or  the  making  of  such),  we 
had,  I  must  suppose,  by  the  thousand.  I  have  said 
they  were  not  to  be  found. 

For  years  before  we  came  to  blows  the  animosity 
between  North  and  South  had  been  deepening,  reach 
ing  at  last  this  point,  that  he  who  would  catch  the  ear 
of  either  side  could  do  so  only  by  fierce  denunciation 
of  the  other;  he  that  would  have  it  thought  that  he 
loved  us  had  only  to  show  that  he  hated  you.  Men  of 
moderation  found  no  hearers.  The  voices  of  the  calm 
and  clear-headed  sank  into  silence;  and  Wigfall  and 
Toombs,  and  Sumner  and  Phillips  walked  up  and  down 
in  the  land. 

Yes,  no  doubt  we  had  thousands  of  statesmen  who 
knew  better.  But  who  knew  them?  And  so  Seward 
kept  piping  of  peace  in  ninety  days,  and  Yancey — 
Polyphemus  of  politicians — was  willing  to  drink  all 
the  blood  that  would  be  shed.  A  Yankee  wouldn't 
fight,  said  the  one.  The  slave-drivers,  perhaps,  would, 
said  the  other ;  but  they  were,  after  all,  a  mere  handful ; 
and  the  poor  white  trash  would  be  as  flocks  of  sheep. 

A  Yankee  wouldn't  fight!  And  why  not,  pray? 
Two  bulls  will,  meeting  in  a  path ;  two  dogs,  over  a 
bone.  The  fishes  of  the  sea  fight;  the  birds  of  the  air; 
nay,  do  not  even  the  little  midgets,  warmed  by  the 
slanting  rays  of  the  summer's  sun,  rend  one  another 
with  infinitesimal  tooth  and  microscopic  nail?  All 
nature  is  but  one  vast  battle-field ;  and  if  the  nations 
of  men  seem  at  times  to  be  at  peace,  what  is  that  peace 
but  taking  breath  for  another  grapple  ?  And  con 
gresses  and  kings  are  but  bottle-holders,  and  time  will 
be  called  in  due  season.  The  Yankees  wouldn't  fight! 
And  suppose  they  vTouldn't,  why  should  they,  pray, 
being  sensible  men  ? 


442  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

Where  was  the  Almighty  Dollar? 

Had  any  one  of  the  Southern  leaders  read  one  page 
of  history,  not  to  know  that  money  means  men?  means 
cannon,  rifles,  sabres?  means  ships,  and  commissariat, 
and  clothing?  means  rallying  from  reverses,  and  vic 
tory  in  the  end  ?  The  Yankee  would  not  fight,  they 
told  us.  His  omnipotent  ally,  they  forgot  to  mention 
or  to  meet.  Had  our  Congress  consisted  of  bankers, 
merchants,  railway  superintendents,  they  would  have 
seen  to  the  gathering  of  the  sinews  of  war.  We  had 
only  the  statesmen  of  the  period, — God  save  the 
mark! 

It  was  in  finance  that  we  blundered  fatally.  'Twas 
not  the  eagle  of  the  orator  that  overcame  us,  but  the 
effigy  thereof,  in  silver  and  in  gold. 

When  we  fired  on  Fort  Sumter  there  was  a  burst  of 
patriotism  throughout  the  North,  and  her  young  men 
flocked  to  her  standards.  They  fought,  and  fought 
well.  The  difference  between  them  and  us  was,  that 
when  they  got  tired  of  poor  fare  and  hard  knocks  they 
could  find  others  to  take  their  places.  Being  sensible, 
practical  men,  they  used  their  opportunities.  When  a 
man  was  drafted  (as  the  war  went  on)  he  or  his  friends 
found  the  means  of  hiring  a  substitute  (persons  who 
have  visited  the  North  since  the  war  tell  me  that  you 
rarely  find  a  man  of  means  who  served  in  the  army); 
and  at  last  cities  and  counties  and  States  began  to 
meet  each  successive  call  for  fresh  troops  by  votes  of 
money ;  their  magnificent  bounty  system  grew  up,  and 
from  that  time  the  composition  of  the  Northern  armies 
rapidly  changed.  Trained  soldiers  from  every  part  of 
the  world  flocked  to  the  El  Dorado  of  the  West ;  and 
as  the  war  went  on  each  successive  battle  brought  less 
and  less  grief  to  the  hearts  and  homes  of  the  N/orth, 
while  with  us — with  us! 

From  every  corner  of  Europe  they  poured. 

From  Italy,  from  Sweden,  from  Eussiar  and  from 
Spain. 

From  the  Danube  and  the  Loire;  from  the  marshy 
borders  of  the  Elbe  and  the  sunny  slopes  of  the 
Guadalquivir. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  443 

From  the  Alps  and  the  Balkan.  From  the  home  of 
the  reindeer  and  the  land  of  the  olive.  From  Majorca 
and  Minorca,  and  from  the  Isles  of  Greece. 

From  Berlin  and  Vienna ;  from  Dublin  and  from 
Paris ;  from  the  vine-clad  hills  of  the  Adriatic  and 
the  frozen  shores  of  the  Baltic  Sea. 

From  Skager  Eack  and  Skater  Gat,  and  from  Como 
and  Killarney. 

From  sweet  Auburn,  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
from  the  banks  and  braes  o'  bonny  Doon,  and  from 
Bingen-on-the-Rhine. 

Catholic  and  Calvinist;  Teuton,  Slav,  and  Celt, — 
who  was  not  there  to  swell  that  host,  and  the  babel 
of  tongues  around  their  camp-fires?  For  to  every  hut 
in  Europe,  where  the  pinch  of  want  was  known,  had 
gone  the  rumor  of  fabulous  bounty  and  high  pay  now, 
generous  pension  hereafter. 

At  Bull  Run  the  North  met  the  South ;  at  Appomat- 
tox  Lee  laid  down  his  sword  in  the  presence  of  the 
world  in  arms. 


CHAPTER  LXXL 

AND  Gordon  ?  What  did  he  see,  standing  on  Massa- 
nutten's  crest  ? 

They  lay  there,  beyond  Cedar  Creek,  the  Eighth 
Corps,  the  Nineteenth  Corps  and  the  Sixth;  and,  further 
away,  the  heavy  masses  of  their  cavalry;  spread  out 
before  him,  forty  or  fifty  thousand  strong. 

Like  a  map.  "  I  can  distinguish  the  very  chevrons 
of  that  sergeant,"  said  he. 

And  now  he  bends  his  eyes  on  Fisher's  Hill. 

Those  men  lying  there  were  beaten  at  "Winchester, 
one  month  ago.  Against  brigade  Early  can  bring  regi 
ment,  against  division,  brigade ;  can  oppose  division  to 
corps.  And  yet  he  is  going  to  hurl  this  little  handful 
against  that  mighty  host. 

A  mere  handful;  but  hearts  of  English  oak!  The 
ancestors  of  these  men  fought  and  won  at  Crecy  and 


444  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

Agincourt;  and  they  are  going  to  fight  and  lose  at 
Cedar  Creek.  The  result  was  different, — but  the  odda 
and  the  spirit  were  the  same. 

Have  1  forgotten  the  brigade  of  Louisiana  Creoles  ? 
No ;  but  when  I  would  speak  of  them,  a  certain  indig 
nant  sorrow  chokes  my  utterance.  They  came  to  us 
many  and  they  went  away  few ;  and  the  Valley  has 
been  made  historic  by  their  blood,  mingled  with  ours. 

And  now  is  heard  the  voice  of  one,  speaking  as  with 
authority, — the  voice  of  a  Louisianian,  proclaiming  to 
the  world  that  these  Louisianians  died  in  an  unjust 
cause.  Unjust !  It  is  a  word  not  to  be  used  lightly. 
Your  share  of  the  obloquy,  living  comrades,  you  can 
bear ;  but  theirs  ?  For  they  are  not  here  to  speak  for 
themselves. 

And  to  say  it  to  their  widows  and  their  orphans ! 

That  word  could  not  help  the  slave.  He  is  free, 
thank  heaven.  Nor  was  the  war  in  which  these  men 
died  waged  to  free  him.  He  was  freed  to  wage  the 
war,  rather,  as  everybody  knew  when  the  proclamation 
of  emancipation  was  promulgated.  In  point  of  fact, 
the  struggle  was  between  conflicting  interpretations  of 
the  Constitution ;  and  the  Northern  people,  by  a  great 
and  successful  war,  established  their  view  of  its  obliga 
tions;  the  freedom  of  the  slave  being  a  corollary  of 
victory. 

Unjust!  had  it  not  been  as  well  to  leave  that  word 
to  others  ?  'Tis  an  ill  bird  that  fouls  its  own  nest. 

The  war  wrought  wide  ruin ;  but  it  has  been  a  boon 
to  the  South  in  this,  at  least:  that  it  has  jostled  our 
minds  out  of  their  accustomed  grooves.  Bold  thinking 
has  come  to  be  the  fashion.  And  so  we  should  not 
find  fault  with  the  author  of  Doctor  Sevier,  if,  dazzled 
by  the  voluptuous  beauty  of  quadroon  and  octoroon, 
he  should  find  a  solution  of  our  race  troubles  in  in 
termarriage.  Let  him  think  his  little  thought.  Let 
him  say  his  little  say.  It  will  do  no  harm.  On  one 
question  he  will  find,  I  think,  a  "solid"  North  and 
a  "  solid"  South.  Both  are  content  to  choose  their 
wives  from  among  the  daughters  of  that  great  Aryan 
race  which  boasts  so  many  illustrious  women  j  and 


THE  STORF  OF  DON  MIFF.  445 

which  boasts  still  more  the  millions  of  gentle  mothers 
and  brave  wives,  whose  names  the  trump  of  fame  has 
never  sounded.  And  with  such,  I  think,  both  the  blue 
and  the  gray  are  likely  to  rest  content.  Content,  too, 
that  their  children,  like  themselves,  should  be  of  that 
pure  Indo-Germanic  stock  whence  has  sprung  a  Socrates 
and  a  Homer;  a  Csesar  and  a  Galileo;  a  Descartes 
and  a  Pascal;  a  Goethe  and  a  Beethoven;  a  Newton 
and  a  Shakespeare.  The  countrymen  of  Cervantes  and 
of  Cortez,  failing  to  keep  their  blood  pure,  have  peopled 
a  continent  with  Greasers  and  with  Gauchos.*  And 
shall  the  children  of  Washington  become  a  nation  of 
Pullman  car  porters — and  octoroon  heroines — be  theii 
eyes  never  so  lustrous  ? 

But  such  matters  are  legitimate  subjects  of  discus 
sion.  So  let  him  have  his  say.  But  there  are  things 
which  it  is  moi'e  seemly  to  leave  unsaid. 

When  a  step-mother  is  installed  in  the  house,  you 
may  think  her  vastly  superior,  if  you  will,  with  her 
velvets  and  her  laces  and  her  diamonds,  to  her  that  bore 
you ;  and  you  may,  perhaps,  win  fame  as  an  original 
thinker  by  saying  so  to  the  world ;  but  there  is  a  cer 
tain  instinct  of  manhood  that  would  seal  the  lips  of 
most  men.  And  I,  for  my  part,  know  many,  very 
many  Northern  men ;  and  not  one  of  them  seems  to 
wish  to  have  me  grovel  in  the  dust  and  cry  peccavi. 
Would  it  not  have  been  a  disgrace  to  them  to  have 
spent,  with  all  their  resources  and  odds,  four  years  in 
subduing  a  race  of  snivellers?  No;  let  us  say  to  the 
end  :  you  were  right  in  fighting  for  your  country,  we 
equally  right  in  battling  for  ours.  The  North  will,  the 
North  does  respect  us  all  the  more  for  it. 

As  I  read  these  words,  Charley  rose,  and,  opening  a 
book-case,  took  out  a  volume.  Finding,  apparently,  the 
passage  he  sought,  he  closed  the  book  upon  his  fore 
finger. 

"When  a  man  takes  upon  himself,"  he  began,  "to 
rise  up  before  Israel  to  confess  and  make  atonement 

*  I  do  not  forget  the  admirable  men  of  pure  Castilian  blood  to  be  foun.l 
throughout  Spanish  America.  But  their  very  superiority  accentuates  tbe 
argument. — J.  H.  W. 

38 


446  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

for  the  sins  of  the  people,  he  should  be  quite  sure  that 
he  has  the  right  to  exercise  the  functions  of  high-priest. 

"  If  either  his  father  or  his  mother,  for  example, 
sprang  from  the  region  roundabout  Tyre  and  Sidon, 
that  should  bid  him  pause.  It  is  not  enough  that  one 
wields  the  pen  of  a  ready  writer.  One  must  be  an 
Hebrew  of  the  Hebrews.  Else  the  confession  goes 
for  naught. 

"  What  Jack  has  just  read,"  added  he,  "  brought  to 
my  mind  a  passage  which  I  have  not  thought  of  for 
ages.  You  must  know,  Alice,  that  after  the  death  of 
Cyrus  at  the  battle  of  Cunaxa,  the  Ten  Thousand  made 
a  truce  with  Tissaphernes,  lieutenant  of  Artaxerxes, 
who  agreed  to  conduct  them  back  to  Greece.  After 
journeying  together  for  some  time,  he  invited  the  Greek 
generals  to  a  conference  at  his  headquarters.  Clearchus 
and  almost  all  of  the  leading  officers  accepted  the  invi 
tation,  and  at  a  given  signal  were  seized  and  murdered. 

"  The  Ten  Thousand  were  in  as  bad  plight  as  ever  an 
army  was.  Without  leaders,  confronted  by  a  countless 
host,  they  had  either  to  surrender  or  cut  their  way 
through  a  thousand  miles  of  hostile  territory. 

"  Xenophon,  though  not  an  officer,  called  an  assembly, 
and  soon  aroused  a  stern  enthusiasm.  Speech  after 
speech  was  made,  and  no  one  uttered  other  than  brave 
words,  except  a  certain  Apollonides ;  and  he  cried  out 
that  the  others  spoke  nonsense, — that  the  safe  and  prof 
itable  thing  to  do  was  to  grovel  before  the  Great  King. 
Xenophon  replied  in  a  sarcastic  vein,  ending  as  fol 
lows: 

" '  It  seems  to  me,  oh  men,  that  we  should  not  admit 
this  man  into  any  fellowship  with  us,  but  that  we  should 
cashier  him  of  his  captaincy  and  put  baggage  upon  his 
back,  and  use  him  as  a  beast  of  burden.  For  he  is  a 
disgrace  to  his  native  land  and  to  all  Greece,  since, 
being  a  Greek,  he  is  such  as  he  is.' 

" '  And  thereupon.  Agasias,  the  Stymphalian,  taking 
up  the  discourse,  said,  '  But  this  man  is  not  a  Greek  ; 
for  I  see  that,  like  a  Lydian,  he  has  both  his  ears 
bored.' 

"  And  such  was  the  fact.  Him,  therefore,  they  cast 
out." 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  447 


CHAPTER  LXXIL 

IT  is  not  my  purpose  to  describe  the  battle  of  Cedar 
Creek.  Even  of  the  role  played  by  Gordon's  division, 
of  which  the  present  writer  formed,  according  to  Alice, 
a  large  part,  I  shall  give  no  detailed  account ;  for  my 
object  is  not  so  much  to  instruct  military  men  as  to  en 
tertain  my  fair  reader. 

Three  simultaneous  attacks  were  to  be  made.  Ros- 
ser,  advancing  along  the  "  Back-road,"  far  away  to  our 
left,  was  to  swoop  down,  with  his  cavalry,  upon  that 
of  the  enemy.  Kershaw  and  Wharton  were  to  attack 
his  centre  ;  Gordon,  with  Eamseur  and  Pegram,  to  turn 
and  assault  his  left. 

At  eight  o'clock,  therefore,  in  the  evening  of  October 
18,  1864,  our  men,  rising  from  around  their  camp-fires 
and  buckling  on  their  accoutrements,  took  up  their 
line  of  march.  The  enemy  was  miles  away,  yet  they 
spoke  in  undertones ;  for  their  instinct  told  them  that 
they  were  to  surprise  him.  Their  very  tread  as  they 
moved  along  was  in  a  muffled  rhythm,  as  it  seemed  to 
me,  and  their  canteens  gave  forth  a  dim  jingle,  as  of 
sheep-bells,  by  night,  from  a  nodding  flock  on  a  distant 
hill. 

Leaving  the  pike  and  turning  to  the  right,  we  (Gor 
don's  command)  at  one  time  marched  down  a  country 
road,  at  another  straggled,  single-file,  along  bridle 
paths,  at  times  fought  our  way  through  briers  and 
amid  jagged  rocks  as  we  toiled  along  under  the  shadow 
of  Massanutten. 

At  last,  when  the  night  was  wellnigh  spent,  we 
stacked  arms  in  a  field.  The  shining  Shenandoah  mur 
mured  just  in  front  of  us.  We  talked  almost  in  whis 
pers. 

Suddenly  the  notes  of  a  bugle,  faint,  far  away,  broke 
the  stillness  of  the  night.  The  enemy's  cavalry  at 
Front  Royal  were  sounding  the  reveille.  We  held  our 
breath, — had  they  divined  our  intentions? 


448  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

The  bugle- call  to  our  right  had  scarcely  died  away, 
when,  from  far  away  to  our  left,  the  rattle  of  carbines 
was  heard,  low  and  soft,  as  though  one  dreamt  of  battle ! 
'Twas  Rosser.  Unfortunately,  he  had  found  a  portion 
of  the  enemy  in  the  saddle  and  ready  to  march,  though 
not  expecting  an  attack. 

Just  then  the  clanking  of  sabres  and  the  trampling 
of  hoofs  was  heard  close  beside  us;  and  turning,  we 
saw  a  squadron  of  our  cavalry  moving  upon  the  ford. 
A  thick  noist  had  begun  to  rise,  and  as  they  rode  through 
it  they  seemed  colossal  phantoms  rather  than  earthly 
horsemen.  A  few  moments,  and  the  crack  of  carbine- 
shots  was  heard.  The  enemy's  videttes  retired,  and 
our  horsemen  dashed  across  the  stream.  We  followed, 
and  formed  in  a  field  beyond  the  river. 

The  mist  thickened  with  the  approach  of  day.  '  You 
could  scarcely  see  a  man  thirty  feet  away.  Captain 
Smith  had  deployed  his  skirmishers.  As  he  stood  near 
me,  waiting  for  the  word  forward,  a  terrific  rattle  of 
musketiy  burst  upon  our  ears,  coming  from  our  left. 
It  was  Kershaw,  we  knew.  And  then  the  cannon  be 
gan  to  roar.  Kershaw  had  left  his  artillery  behind 
him.  Had  they  been  ready  to  receive  him,  and  were 
the  cannon  and  rifles  of  an  entire  corps  mowing  down 
his  gallant  little  division?  It  was  an  appalling 
moment! 

The  word  was  given,  and  Captain  Smith  and  his 
skirmishers  dashed  into  the  wood  at  a  double-quick. 
We  followed,  and  soon  the  air  was  filled  with  the  roar 
of  wide-spread  battle.  The  cannon  that  we  had  heard, 
as  we  soon  learned,  were  captured  guns  that  Kershaw 
had  turned  upon  the  enemy.  His  division  had  rushed 
up  a  steep  hill  and  put  a  corps  to  flight.  Between  us, 
we  had  soon  driven,  in  headlong  rout  from  their  camps, 
the  Eighth  and  the  Nineteenth  Corps.  The  Sixth  re 
mained,  but  we  could  not  see  it,  so  dense  was  the  mist. 
Our  assault  slackened,  ceased. 

What  would  have  been  the  result  had  we  pushed  on 
it  is  needless,  now,  to  inquire.  Desultory  firing  con 
tinued  till  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  when 
Sheridan,  who  was  at  Winchester  when  the  battle  be- 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  449 

gan,  having  galloped  up,  rallied  thousands  of  the  fugi 
tives,  and  adding  them  to  the  Sixth  Corps  and  his 
heavy  force  of  cavalry,  attacked  and  routed  us  in 
turn. 

There  were  those  who  said  that  Early,  if  he  did  not 
choose  to  continue  the  attack  (the  most  brilliant  move 
ment  of  the  war,  I  think),  should  have  withdrawn  his 
troops,  and  not  held  them  there,  in  an  open  plain,  with 
greatly  superior  forces  in  his  immediate  front.  He 
himself,  smarting  under  defeat,  attributed  the  disaster 
to  the  fact  that  his  men,  scattering  through  the  cap 
tured  camps,  were  engaged  in  plundering  instead  of 
being  at  their  posts ;  and  his  words  have  been  quoted 
by  our  friends  the  enemy.  But  I  think  that  a  moment's 
reflection  will  dispel  this  idea.  Our  hungry  men,  pur 
suing  the  enemy,  and  coming  upon  their  sutlers'  wagons, 
did  undoubtedly  snatch  up  such  edibles  as  came  in  their 
way ;  but  this  occurred  at  day-break,  and  we  were  not 
attacked  till  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  I  remember 
that  I  myself,  espying  a  fat  leg  of  mutton  (of  which 
some  farmer  had  been  robbed),  laid  hands  on  it  with  a 
view  to  a  royal  supper  when  the  battle  should  be  over; 
and,  by  brandishing  it  over  my  head,  like  a  battle-axe, 
caused  much  laughter  in  the  ranks.  What  became  of 
it  I  cannot  recall.  I  know  I  did  not  eat  it ;  but  I  know, 
too,  that  my  seizing  it  had  no  influence  on  the  fortunes 
of  the  day. 

The  truth  is,  our  defeat  requires  no  explanation  or 
apology  from  our  brave  old  general.  When  Sheridan 
attacked  us,  he  brought  against  our  thin,  single  line  of 
jaded  men,  overwhelming  masses  of  fresh  troops,  as 
saulting  our  front,  and,  at  the  same  time,  turning  both 
our  flanks.  I  remember  that  Gordon's  men,  who  held 
the  left  of  our  line,  did  not  give  way  till  bodies  of  the 
enemy  had  marched  entirely  around  our  flank,  and  be 
gan  to  pour  deadly  and  unanswered  volleys  into  our 
backs. 

One  more  word  and  I  am  done  with  the  battle  as  such. 

Captain  Smith,  in  his  letter  to  Major  Frobisher,  found 
it  impossible  to  understand  why  our  army  was  not 
entirely  destroyed  at  Winchester.     I,  on  the  contrary, 
dd  38* 


450  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

can  explain  how  it  was  that  we  were  not  annihilated  at 
Cedar  Creek. 

When  the  enemy,  in  their  pursuit,  reached  Stras- 
burg,  and  saw,  below  them,  slowly  retreating  along  the 
road  to  Fisher's  Hill,  a  dark  mass  of  troops,  they  called 
a  halt.  That  halt  saved  our  army.  I  can  hardly  re 
press  a  smile  now,  when  I  remember  that  that  serried 
phalanx  which  looked  so  formidable,  and  gave  the 
enemy  pause,  consisted  of  fifteen  hundred  Federal 
prisoners,  guarded  by  a  few  hundred  of  our  men.  But 
the  eccentric  strategy  of  that  halt,  instead  of  being 
comic,  was,  in  truth,  fearfully  tragic ;  for  it  proti'acted 
the  defence  of  Eichmond,  and  delayed  the  close  of  the 
war  till  the  following  spring,  and  cost  the  lives  of  thou 
sands  of  brave  men  on  both  sides. 

So  much  for  the  battle  of  Cedar  Creek.  Such  slight 
sketch  of  it  as  I  have  given  has  cost  me  more  pain  than 
it  can  give  the  reader  pleasure.  Not  willingly  did  I 
introduce  it  into  my  story. 

That  story  grows  sombre.  It  opened  bright  and  joy 
ous  as  the  sunny  nook  of  Earth  in  which  my  earlier 
scenes  were  laid.  But  between  my  hero  and  the  land 
he  helped  to  defend  there  is  a  parallelism  of  fortunes. 
The  shadow  of  the  same  fate  hangs  over  both. 


Adas 


Flauti. 


Oboi. 


Clarinetti 
inB. 


Fagotti, 


jorno  I,  u,  II. 
iiiC. 


Corno  III. 
iu  Es. 


Trombe 
inC. 


Timpani 
in  C.  G. 


Violino  I. 


Violino  II. 


Viola. 


Violoncello. 


Basso, 


5--EJ— 


Sotto  i 


~$1         3t     ~* 


SYMPHONY  OF  LIFE. 
MOVEMENT  IV. 


MARCIA   FUNEBRE. 


CHAPTER  LXXIII. 

DURING  the  night  of  this  18th  of  October,  while  we 
were  making  our  toilsome  advance  upon  the  enemy,  a 
Virginia  soldier,  wounded  in  the  battle  of  "Winchester, 
lay  in  a  small  room  of  -a  house  in  the  edge  of  Middle- 
town  ;  around  which  village  the  battle  of  Cedar  Creek 
was  chiefly  fought.  Upon  some  bedding,  spread  upon 
the  floor,  lay  a  young  woman,  his  cousin ;  who,  having 
heard  that  he  had  been  hard  hit,  had  made  her  way  to 
the  enemy's  pickets,  and,  after  some  parleying,  gained 
permission  to  pass  within  their  lines  and  nurse  her 
wounded  relative.  This  young  woman  had,  since  the 
beginning  of  the  war,  passed  her  life,  as  one  might  say, 
in  our  hospitals.  But  her  present  position,  within  the 
enemy's  lines,  was  a  trying  one.  It  so  happened  that 
between  the  Federal  officer  who  occupied  a  room  in  the 
same  house  and  herself  a  strong  antipathy  soon  grew 
up.  The  little  nurse  was  too  busy  attending  to  the 
wants  of  her  wounded  cousin  to  leave  his  side  often ; 
but  being  under  the  same  roof  with  the  Federal  officer, 
they  met,  in  a  casual  manner,  not  infrequently.  These 
meetings  he  contrived  to  make  very  disagreeable,  by 
continually  attempting  to  force  political  discussions 
upon  her.  But  she,  on  her  side,  managed  to  render 
them  far  more  exasperating  to  him. 

He  that  would  get  the  better  of  a  woman  had  best 
finish  her  with  a  club  at  once  and  be  done  with  it;  he 

451 


452  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIF*. 

is  sure  to  get  the  worst  of  it  in  a  tongue-battle.  It 
may  be  a  washerwoman  opening  on  you  with  Gatling- 
gun  invective,  and  sweeping  you  from  the  face  of  the 
earth;  or  a  dainty  society  belle,  with  a  dropping  sharp 
shooter  fire  of  soft-voiced  sarcasm, — in  either  case  you 
shall  wish  that  you  had  held  your  peace. 

A.nd  so  this  big  Federal  colonel  never  had  an  en 
counter  with  the  little  rebel  nurse  but  he  gnashed  his 
teeth  and  raged  for  hours  afterwards.  She  always 
contrived,  in  the  subtlest  way,  and  without  saying  so, 
to  make  him  feel  that  she  did  not  look  upon  him  as  a 
gentleman.  One  day,  for  exaihple,  he  had  been  care 
fully  explaining  to  her  in  how  many  ways  the  Northern 
people  were  superior  to  the  Southern. 

"  But  I  don't  believe,"  added  he,  with  evident  acri 
mony,  "  that  you  F.  F.  V.'s  think  there  is  one  gentle 
man  in  the  whole  North.  This  arrogance  on  your  part 
is  really  one  main  cause  of  the  war." 

"  I  can  readily  believe  you, — for  I  understand  the 
feeling.  But  really  you  do  us  an  injustice.  I  know, 
personally,  a  number  of  Northern  gentlemen.  In  New 
York,  for  instance"  (the  colonel  was  from  that  city), 

"  I  am  acquainted  with  the family  and  the s 

and  the s,  do  you  know  them  ?" 

The  colonel  hesitated. 

"No?"  said  she,  in  soft  surprise.  "Ah,  you  should 
lose  no  time  in  making  their  acquaintance  on  your 
return  to  the  city.  They  are  very  nice.  But  I  hear 
my  patient  calling.  Good-day!" 

The  colonel  knew,  and  he  saw  plainly  that  she  knew, 
that  he  could  no  more  enter  one  of  those  houses  than 
he  could  fly.  Ho  could  not  answer  her.  All  that  was 
left  him  was  to  hate  her,  and  this  he  did  with  his  whole 
heart ;  and  all  aristocrats,  living  and  dead. 

When  the  crash  of  battle  burst  forth,  on  the  morning 
of  the  nineteenth,  the  colonel  hurried  forth  to  form  his 
regiment.  He  met  his  men  rushing  pell-mell  to  the 
rear,  and  he  ran  back  to  his  headquarters  to  gather  a 
few  things  that  lay  scattered  about  his  room.  Although 
the  bullets  were  flying  thick,  frequently  striking  the 
house  itself,  he  found  the  little  nurse  standing  on  tho 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  453 

porch,  exultation  in  every  feature.  The  whizzing  of 
the  rifle-balls  seemed  sweet  to  her  ears.  Confederate 
bullets  would  not  hurt  her. 

"  Get  out  of  my  way,"  said  he,  in  a  gruff  voice.  "  This 
is  no  place  for  women" 

"  IN  or  for  men,  either,  you  seem  to  think !" 

He  gave  her  a  black  look. 

. "  Why  this  unseemly  haste,  colonel  ?"  said  she,  follow 
ing  him  into  the  hall.  "  What !  through  the  back  door  ? 
The  Confederates  are  there!"  And  she  stabbed  the  air 
in  the  direction  of  the  coming  bullets  with  a  gesture 
that  would  have  made  the  fortune  of  a  tragedy  queen. 

"  Take  that,  d — n  you !"  And  he  brought  his  open 
hand  down  upon  her  cheek  with  such  force  that,  reeling 
through  the  open  door  of  her  room,  she  fell  headlong 
upon  the  floor. 

"  Coward  I"  roared  a  voice  from  the  threshold  of  the 
hall. 

Rising  to  her  knees  and  turning,  she  saw  the  colonel 
spring  forwai'd  with  a  fierce  glare  in  his  eyes  and  a 
cocked  pistol  in  his  extended  hand.  She  shut  her  eyes 
and  stopped  her  ears. 

Had  he  killed  the  Confederate  ?  No,  for  she  heard 
no  fall ;  but  the  clear  ring,  instead,  of  a  sabre  drawn 
quickly  from  its  scabbard.  The  colonel  stepped  across 
the  threshold  of  the  room  in  which  she  was,  cocking 
his  pistol  for  another  shot.  He  raised  the  weapon, — but 
she  heard  a  spring  in  the  hall,  and  saw  a  flash  of  steel; 
and  the  colonel  fell  at  full  length  upon  the  floor,  with  a 
sword-blade  buried  up  to  the  hilt  in  his  breast.  W  ith  such 
terrific  force  had  the  thrust  been  delivered  that  he  was 
knocked  entirely  off  his  feet,  and  the  whole  house  shook. 

"dounyffsv  ds  xeffwv,  apdftyjas  8k  TSO^S'  in  'GOTO},"  *  mut- 
tered  the  victor,  as  the  young  woman,  springing  to  her 
feet,  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  kissed  him. 

"My  brave  defender!"  cried  she,  in  a  fervor  of 
patriotic  exaltation,  lifting  her  eyes  to  his ;  and  then 
she  sprang  back  with  a  shiver,  and  stood  breathless 


*  He  fell  with  a  crash,  and  his  arms  rattled  upon  him.    (The  Homeric 
formula  when  a  warrior  falls.) 


454  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

before  him,  her  head  bowed  upon  her  breast,  her  face 
ashy  pale. 

A  scene  within  a  scene. 

Without,  the  roar  of  cannon,  the  incessant  rattle  of 
musketry,  the  bursting  of  shells,  the  panic-stricken 
rush  of  riderless  horses,  the  tramp  of  hurrying  men, 
the  Eebel  Yell  sweeping  by  like  a  tornado,  shouts  of 
victory,  moans  of  the  dying. 

Within,  four  people  for  a  moment  oblivious  of  all  this 
mad  hurly-burly  that  billowed  around  them. 

The  convalescent  soldier,  rising  upon  his  elbow, 
looked  with  silent  amazement  upon  the  crouching 
figure  of  his  fair  cousin  ;  while  the  dying  Union  sol 
dier  forgot,  for  a  moment,  his  gaping  wound  as  he 
gazed  upon  the  man  who  had  inflicted  it.  Tall,  broad- 
shouldered,  gaunt  of  flank,  supple,  straight  as  an  In- 
dian,  he  held  in  his  right  hand  the  gory  sword,  from 
which  the  prostrate  officer  saw  his  own  life-blood  trick 
ling,  drop  by  drop,  upon  the  floor.  In  his  left  he  held 
his  cap  uplifted. 

Attila  and  Monsieur  Deux-pas  in  one! 

With  cap  uplifted;  but  head  thrown  back  and  eyes 
averted.  His  right  shoulder  and  breast  were  soaked 
with  blood,  which  was  streaming  down  his  brown 
beard  upon  his  coat,  from  a  bullet-hole  in  his  bronzed 
cheek.  But  it  was  his  eyes  which  riveted  the  attention 
of  his  fallen  enemy.  He  had  been  appalled  by  their 
fierce  glare,  when,  angered  by  the  pistol-shot,  he  had 
sprung  upon  him  in  the  hall.  But  that  look  had  been 
soft  compared  with  the  cold,  steady,  pitiless  gleam 
they  poured  forth  now.  That  man,  thought  he,  would 
not  give  a  cup  of  water  to  a  dying  enemy. 

Captain  Smith  made  two  steps  towards  the  door,  and 
turning,  bowed. 

Feeling  that  he  was  going  (for  she  had  not  dared  to 
raise  her  eyes),  Mary  Eolfe  quivered  for  a  moment 
from  head  to  foot ;  then  springing  forward,  with  pas 
sionate  entreaty  in  every  gesture  and  a  cry  of  anguish 
upon  her  lips : 

"  And  you  will  leave  me  without  a  word  ?  Listen  1 
How  frightfully  the  battle  is  raging  1  And  you  are  so 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  455 

cruel,  cruel,  as  to  go  forth,  and  die,  perhaps,  without 
ever —  I  know  you  will  be  killed,  I  know  it,  I  know  it ! 
And  you  won't  say  you  forgive  me!  Won't  you  say 
just  that  one  little  word  ?  You  loved  me  once, — and 
dearly,  for  you  pressed  me  against  your  heart  and  told 
me  so ;  and  can  that  heart,  once  BO  tender,  bo  so  hard 
now  ?  Oh,  say  you  forgive  me ;  for  the  sake  of  that 
dear,  dead  love,  say  you  forgive  your  little  Mary  !" 

And  round  about  them  the  battle  roared  and  surged 
and  thundered. 

Her  cousin  has  told  me  that  such  was  the  pathos  and 
passion  of  her  tones,-  her  looks,  her  gestures,  as  she 
uttered  these  words  (which  hardly  seemed  unconven 
tional  in  their  fearful  setting),  that  the  eyes  of  the 
dying  soldier  grew  moist.  But  Captain  Smith,  stand 
ing  like  a  granite  cliff: 

"  There  is  nothing  to  forgive.  You  did  your  duty 
as  you  saw  it.  So  did  I  when  I  ran  that  officer  through. 
— Ah,  pardon  me :  I  had  forgotten  you.  Can  I  do  any 
thing  for  you  ?"  added  he  in  a  tender  voice,  as  he 
kneeled  beside  him. 

"  Unbutton  my  coat,  please  ;  I  am  choking." 

The  captain  shuddered  as  he  saw  the  broad  gash  in 
the  breast  of  his  enemy.  "  I  am  sorry  I  hit  you  so 
hard." 

"It  is  all  right,"  replied  he,  wearily.  "I  tried  to 
kill  you,  and  you  killed  me,  that's  all.  But  thank  you 
for  your  kind  words." 

The  captain's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  I  hope  it  is 
not  as  bad  as  you  think.  I'll  send  you  a  surgeon  im 
mediately.  Meanwhile,  keep  up  your  spirits."  And 
taking  the  wounded  man's  hand  in  his,  he  pressed  it 
softly.  Then,  rising,  "  Good-by,"  said  he,  with  a  cheer 
ing  smile,  and  moved  towards  the  door. 

It  was  then  that  Mary,  catching,  for  the  first  time,  a 
view  of  the  right  side  of  his  face,  saw  the  blood  trick 
ling  down  his  cheek. 

"  You  are  wounded  already,"  she  cried  in  terror. 

"  Yes ;  wounded  beyond  healing,"  said  the  captain 
of  the  Myrmidons  ;  and  with  a  cold  bow,  he  passed  out 
of  the  door  and  into  the  tempest  of  the  battle. 


456  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  Oh — oh — oh  !"  gasped  Mary,  wringing  her  inter 
locked  hands  high  above  her  head ;  and  she  sank  slowly 
down  upon  the  floor. 

The  measures  fashioned  by  the  hands  of  men  can 
hold  but  so  much  ;  but  anguish  without  limit  may  be 
pent  up  within  a  human  heart  that  is  bursting,  yet 
will  not  burst. 

The  officer  turned  his  eyes,  and,  even  in  his  own  great 
extremity,  pitied  her. 

And,  after  all,  which  of  the  two  was  most  to  be  pitied? 

He  was  about  to  speak  a  few  kind  words,  when  ho 
saw  upon  her  pallid  cheek  the  dark  bruises  made  by  his 
own  heavy  hand ;  and  he  held  his  peace.  His  lips  were 
parched,  his  throat  tortured  with  that  cruel  thirst  that 
loss  of  blood  entails.  His  wounded  neighbor  could  not, 
she  would  not  hand  him  a  cup  of  water.  At  any  rate, 
it  were  worthier  to  die  there,  where  he  lay,  rather  than 
ask  a  favor  of  the  woman  he  had  so  insulted.  Three 
times  he  tried  to  rise,  and  as  often  fell  heavily  back. 
She  raised  her  head  and  saw  the  longing,  wistful  look 
in  his  eyes,  fixed  upon  a  bucket  which  stood  in  a  corner 
of  the  room. 

It  is  wonderful  how  sorrow  softens  the  heart ! 

She  rose  in  an  instant  and  brought  him  the  cup. 
He  could  not  lift  his  head.  Bending  over  him,  she 
placed  her  arm  beneath  his  neck  and  raised  him.  As 
he  drank,  the  tears  poured  down  his  cheeks.  Gently 
withdrawing  her  arm,  she  tripped  softly  across  the 
room  and  brought  her  own  pillow  and  placed  it  beneath 
his  head ;  and  sitting  down  upon  the  floor,  by  his  side, 
stroked  his  brown  forehead  with  her  soft  white  hand. 
He  raised  his  streaming  eyes  to  hers,  and  again  and 
again  essayed  to  speak  ;  but  his  quivering  lips  refused 
to  obey. 

."  I  know  what  you  would  say ;  so  never  mind.  Don't 
worry  now.  You  may  beg  my  pardon  when  you  get 
well." 

He  shook  his  head  sadly.  "  I  am  dying  now, — I  feel 
it." 

His  voice  sank  into  a  whisper.  She  bent  over  him 
to  catch  his  words. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  457 

"  Promise  me  to  write  to  my  mother  and  tell  her  how 
I  died,  and  that  you  sat  beside  me.  Leave  out  one 
thing.  It  would  break  her  heart  to  hear  that  of  me. 
You  will?  God  bless  you.  Her  address  is  in  my 
pocket.  Write  to  her.  You  promise  ?  Oh,  how  good 
of  you  to  hold  the  very  hand  that — " 

"  Hush !     Don't  talk  of  that  now." 

"  You  won't  have  to  hold  it  long.  I  feel  it  coming, 
coming.  Press  my  hand  hard,  harder !  You  have  for 
given  me  I  Tell  her,  that  as  I  lay — dying — far  away 
from  home — an  angel — of  light — " 


CHAPTEK  LXXIY. 

IF  only  night  would  come ! 

They  were  pouring  down  upon  us  and  around  us  in 
overwhelming  masses.  They  had  turned  our  left,  and 
were  raking  Gordon's  flank  and  rear.  It  was  a  ques 
tion  of  a  few  minutes  only. 

In  our  front  was  a  narrow  field.  Beyond  that,  a  wood. 
Through  this  the  enemy  were  driving  our  skirmishers 
back  upon  the  main  line.  One  by  one  these  brave  men 
emerged  from  the  wood  and  trotted  briskly  across  the 
field,  targets,  every  one  of  them,  for  a  dozen  riflesv 

There  come  two  more !  They  are  the  last.  But  they 
do  not  trot,  as  the  rest  did  and  as  skirmishers  should. 

Upon  those  two,  convergent  rifles  from  all  along  the 
line  of  the  wood  poured  a  rain  of  lead.  Still  they  re 
fused  to  hurry.  And  one  was  tall  and  bearded,  and 
the  other  slender,  and  with  a  face  as  smooth  as  a  girl's. 
The  boy,  as  fast  as  he  loaded  his  rifle,  wheeled  and  fired; 
the  man  carried  a  pistol  in  bis  hand.  Weeds  fell  about 
them,  mowed  down  by  the  bullets;  spurts  of  dust 
leaped  from  under  their  very  feet. 

The  few  men  left  in  our  line  stood,  under  cover  of  a 
thin  curtain  of  trees,  fascinated  by  the  sight  of  these 
u  39 


458  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

two,  leisurely  stalking  along,  under  that  murderous 
fire.* 

"  Kun,  run  I"  we  shouted. 

"  Kun  1"  cried  Captain  Smith,  giving  the  shoulder  of 
his  companion  a  push. 

"  And  leave  my  commander !"  replied  Edmund. 

«  Stoop,  then !" 

"  Show  me  how,  captain !" 

"  Obey  me !"  thundered  he. 

The  boy  lowered  his  head,  as  he  rammed  a  bullet 
home ;  then  turned,  and,  cocking  his  rifle,  scanned  the 
opposite  wood  narrowly.  Presently  he  raised  his  rifle; 
but  before  he  could  fire  we  heard  that  terrible  sound 
which  old  soldiers  know  so  well. 

"  Oh  !"  cried  the  boy,  falling  upon  his  face. 

"My  God!  my  God!"  ejaculated  the  captain  of  the 
Myrmidons,  with  a  woman's  tenderness  in  his  voice 
and  the  despair  of  Laocoon  in  his  corrugated  brow. 

Hearing  that  cry,  the  boy  turned  quickly  and  smiled 
in  his  captain's  face.  "  It  is  only  a  flesh-wound,  through 
the  thigh,"  said  he ;  "I  can  walk,  I  think." 

He  was  attempting  to  rise,  when  his  captain,  placing 
his  strong  arms  beneath  him,  lifted  him  high  in  the  air. 
He  ran,  then ;  and  his  face  was  full  of  terror,  as  the 
thick -flying  bullets  whistled  past  him  and  his  burden. 
The  two  were  within  a  few  paces  of  where  I  stood, 
when  again  that  terrific  sound  was  heard;  and  they 
both  fell  heavily  at  my  veiy  feet. 

A  bullet,  coming  from  our  flank  and  rear,  had  struck 
Captain  Smith  in  the  right  breast. 

It  was  a  wound  in  front,  at  any  rate. 

There  was  but  one  ambulance-wagon  in  sight,  and 
that  was  retreating.  A  skirmisher  ran  to  overtake  it. 
Others  placed  the  captain  and  Edmund  on  stretchers 
and  hurried  after  it. 

"Jack,  old  boy,  good-by.  I  am  done  for;  but  I 
particularly  desire  to  get  within  our  lines;  so  hold 
them  in  check  as  long  as  you  can.  Say  farewell  to 
Charley." 

*  Meis  ipsius  vidi  oculis. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  459 

A  few  of  his  own  men  held  their  ground  till  they 
saw  their  captain  and  Edmund  disappear,  in  the  "wagon," 
over  the  hill,  when  they  fell  back,  loading  and  firing  as 
they  went.  When  the  wagon  reached  the  bridge  be 
yond  Strasburg,  it  was  found  broken  down;  but  the 
men  with  the  stretchers  managed  to  get  our  two 
wounded  friends  across  the  stream,  and  to  find  another 
wagon ;  so,  the  pursuit  slackening  at  this  juncture, 
they  were  not  captured. 

Late  in  the  night,  I  found  them  by  the  road-side. 
Edmund  was  asleep.  The  captain  lay  awake,  watched 
by  one  of  his  brave  skirmishers.  He  gave  messages 
to  my  grandfather,  to  Charley  and  Alice,  to  the  Poy- 
thresses.  "And  now,  good-night,"  said  he.  "You  need 
rest.  Throw  yourself  down  by  that  fire  and  go  to 
sleep.  Don't  bother  about  me.  I  shall  set  out  for 
Harrisonburg  at  daybreak." 

"  The  ride  will  kill  you." 

He  smiled  faintly.  "  I  must  get  well  within  our 
lines.  Remember — Harrisonburg — good-night !"  And 
he  closed  his  eyes  and  wearily  turned  his  face  away. 
"Shelton!" 

The  skirmisher  bent  tenderly  over  his  captain. 

"  Lie  down  by  the  fire  and  sleep.  You  cannot  help 
me.  God  alone  can  do  that,  and  he  will  release  me 
from  my  sufferings  before  many  days.  Shelton,  give 
me  your  hand.  Tell  your  little  boy,  when  he  grows  up, 
that  I  said  you  were  as  brave  as  a  lion  in  battle;  and 
tell  your  wife  that  you  could  be  as  gentle  as  a  woman 
to  a  suffering  comrade.  And  now  lie  down  and  rest. 
Good-night !" 

"  Presently,  captain." 

"What  are  you  crying  about,  man?  Such  things 
will  happen.  Good-night!" 


460  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 


CHAPTER  LXXV. 

LET  us  return  to  that  little  parlor  on  Leigh  Street, 
from  the  windows  of  which,  four  years  ago,  we  caught 
our  first  glimpse  of  the  man  who  has  played  so  large  a 
part  in  our  story.  It  is  full  of  people,  now, — half  a 
dozen  elderly  men,  all  the  rest  women.  Of  the  men, 
one  is  a  minister,  with  a  face  so  singularly  gentle  that 
his  smile  is  a  sort  of  subdued  sunbeam. 

The  countenances  of  the  women  all  wear  looks  of 
happy  expectancy.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Poythress  are  there, 
and  Lucy.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rolfe,  but  not  Mary.  And 
others  whom  the  reader,  to  her  cost,  does  not  know. 
Our  plump  friend,  Mrs.  Carter,  is  bustling  about,  who 
but  she,  her  jolly  face  wreathed  in  smiles. 

At  every  sound  in  the  hall,  every  female  neck  is 
craned  towards  the  door.  Somebody  or  something  is 
expected. 

"  Mrs.  Carter,"  said  Mrs.  Poythress,  "  what  name 
has  Alice  selected  for  the  little  man  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  what  is  to  be  his  name  ?"  echoed  every 
lady  in  the  room. 

Thereupon,  Mrs.  Carter,  being  constitutionally  inca 
pable  of  laughing,  began  to  shake. 

At  this  eccentric  behavior  on  the  part  of  the  young 
grandmother,  curiosity  rose  to  fever  heat;  but  the 
more  they  plied  her  with  questions,  the  more  she  could 
not  answer.  Seeing  her  incapable  of  speech,  her  grave 
and  silent  husband  came  to  the  rescue,  and  explained 
that  what  amused  Mrs.  Carter  was  that  she  did  not 
know  what  their  grandchild  was  to  be  called.  It  ap 
peared  that  Alice,  as  a  reward  for  his  getting  well  of  his 
wound,  had  allowed  Charley  the  privilege  of  naming 
their  son.  He  had  accepted  the  responsibility, — but  no 
mortal,  not  even  his  wife,  had  been  able  to  make  him 
say  what  the  name  was  to  be. 

This  statement  sent  the  curiosity  of  the  audience  up 
to  the  boiling  point.  Did  you  ever! 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  4G1 

Mrs.  Rolfe  interrogated  Mr.  Eolfe  with  her  impressive 
eyes. 

"  Such  a  fancy  would  never  have  occurred  to  me,  I'm 
sure,"  said  that  man  of  peace. 

"  Al-i-ce !"  called  Mrs.  Carter,  from  the  foot  of  the 
stairs. 

"  We  are  coming,  mother,"  answered  a  cheery  voice 
from  the  hall  above ;  and  Alice,  giving  two  or  three 
final  little  jerks  at  the  ends  of  certain  ribbons  and  bits 
of  lace  that  adorned  her  boy  (he  was  asleep  on  his 
nurse's  shoulder),  stood  aside  to  let  that  dignitary  pass 
down-stairs,  at  the  head  of  the  procession. 

"And  now,"  said  Alice,  going  up  to  her  husband, 
"  what  is  his  name  to  be?" 

"  One  that  he  will  never  have  cause  to  be  ashamed 
of,"  replied  Charley. 

Alice  drew  back  in  surprise.  Up  to  this  point  she 
had  looked  upon  the  thing  as  a  joke,  and  enjoyed  it, 
too,  as  so  characteristic  of  her  husband.  This  time, 
however,  he  had  not  smiled,  as  usual.  On  the  contrary, 
he  betrayed,  both  in  voice  and  look,  a  certain  suppressed 
excitement.  She  imagined,  even,  that  he  was  a  trifle 
pale;  and  her  heart  began  to  flutter  a  little,  she  knew 
not  why. 

The  column  halted  when  it  reached  the  closed  par 
lor  door.  Here  Charley  took  the  sleeping  boy  in  hia 
arms. 

When  the  audience  within  heard  the  knob  rattle,  the 
excitement  was  intense.  It  was  dissipated,  in  an  in 
stant,  by  the  sight  of  Charley  bearing  the  child. 

In  this  wide  world  there  lives  not  a  woman  who  can 
look  upon  a  bearded  man,  with  his  first  infant  in  his 
arms,  without  smiling. 

The  admiring  ohs  and  ahs  made  the  young  mother's 
heart  beat  high  with  joy.  And  who  shall  call  her 
weak,  because  she  forgot  that  they  are.  to  be  heard  at 
every  christening?  In  the  name  of  pity,  let  us  sip 
whatever  illusive  nectar  chance  flowers  along  our  stony 
path  may  afford ! 

Every  one  noticed  how  awkward  Charley  was  in 
handing  the  baby  to  the  minister  •  while  the  good  man, 

39* 


462  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

on  the  contrary,  received  an  ovation  of  approving 
smiles  for  his  skill  in  holding  him. 

The  little  fellow,  himself,  appeared  to  feel  the  differ 
ence.  He  nestled,  at  any  rate,  against  the  comfortable 
shoulder,  and  threw  his  head  back;  and  his  little  twink 
ling  nose,  pointing  heavenward,  seemed  to  say  that  he 
knew  what  it  all  meant. 

"Name  this  child!" 

"  Ah-ah-ah-ah  1" 

Every  neck  was  craned,  every  ear  eager  to  catch  the 
first  mysterious  syllable ! 

Alice  glanced  anxiously  at  her  husband. 

Why  that  determined  look?  What  was  he  going  to 
do? 

A  lightning-flash  darted  through  her  brain  !  Char 
ley's  mother's  father  was  named  Peter !  He  had  been 
a  man  of  mark  in  his  day ;  and,  besides,  Charley  wor 
shipped  his  mother's  memory.  Peter!  Horrors!  And 
then  he  stammers  so  over  his  P's !  That  half-defiant 
look,  too ! 

Charley  leaned  forward. 

She  could  not  hear  what  he  said ;  but  she  saw,  from 
the  obstinate  recusancy  of  his  lips,  that  there  was  a  P 
in  the  name.  She  felt  a  choking  in  her  throat. 

'Twas  her  first, — and  Peter!  And  he  knew  how 
painfully  absurd  she  thought  the  name!  Poor  little 
innocent  babe !  Peter!  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

No  one  had  heard  the  name ;  not  even  the  minister. 
He  bent  an  inquiring  look  upon  Charley. 

Charley  repeated  the  words. 

This  time  the  good  man  heard,  though  no  one  else 
did.  Bringing  his  left  arm  around  in  front  of  his 
breast,  he  dipped  his  right  hand  into  the  water,  and 
raised  it  above  the  head  of  the  sleeping  boy. 

Alice's  heart  stood  still ! 

"  Theodoric  Poythress,  I  baptize  thee — " 

A  gasp  of  surprise,  followed  by  a  stifled  moan, 
startled  minister  and  people ;  and  all  eyes  were  turned 
towards  the  Poythress  group. 

Mrs.  Poythress  lay  with  her  head  upon  her  husband's 
breast,  silent  tears  streaming  from  her  closed  eyes. 


THE    STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  463 

Lucy,  half-risen  from  her  seat,  leaned  over  her  mother, 
holding  her  hand,  deep  compassion  in  her  gentle  eyes. 
Her  father  sat  bolt  upright,  looking  stern,  in  his  effort 
to  appear  calm.  Her  mother  pressed  Lucy  gently  back 
into  her  chair,  and  the  minister  went  on. 

Hurried  leave-takings  followed  the  ceremony.  The 
baby  was  awake  and  gurgling,  but  nobody  noticed  him  ; 
not  even  his  mother.  Mrs.  Poythress  did  not  stir. 

The  front  door  was  heard  to  close. 

"Lucy,  are  they  all  gone?" 

"  Yes,  mother." 

She  opened  her  eyes,  and  seeing  Charley  standing, 
silent,  by  the  side  of  his  wife,  rose  and  staggered  to 
wards  him,  with  oustretched  arms.  He  ran  to  meet 
her ;  and  she  folded  him  to  her  breast  with  a  long,  con 
vulsive  embrace ;  then  dropped  into  a  chair,  without  a 
word,  and  covered  her  face  with  one  hand,  while  she 
held  one  of  bis  with  the  other. 

First,  Lucy  thanked  Charley,  and  then  Mr.  Poythress, 
coming  up,  and  taking  Charley's  hand  in  both  his :  "  My 
boy,  you  are  as  true  as  steel, — I  thank  you."  And  he 
strode  stiffly  out  into  the  hall. 

And  instantly,  as  Alice's  quick  eye  noticed,  the  cloud 
which  had  lingered  on  her  husband's  brow  vanished. 
He  drew  a  long,  deep  breath,  and  turning  with  a  bright 
smile,  chucked  young  Theodoric  under  the  chin.  "  How 
do  you  like  your  name,  young  fellow?" 

The  corners  of  the  young  fellow's  mouth  made  for 
his  ears,  then  snapped  together  beneath  his  nose. 

"  Your  views  vary  with  kaleidoscopic  rap-p-p-pidity," 
remarked  the  philosopher. 

The  son  of  the  philosopher  crowed. 

"He  says  he  rather  likes  his  name,"  said  Charley; 
"  but,"  added  he,  drawing  his  handkerchief  from  his 
pocket,  "  those  drops  of  water,  at  the  corners  of  his 
eyes,  look  too  much  like — " 

"  Hush  !"  cried  Alice,  quickly ;  and  she  laid  her  hand 
on  her  husband's  mouth. 

"  Absit  omen  I"  said  he. 


464  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF 


CHAPTEK  LXXYI. 

ON  the  morn  ing  folio  wing  this  christening,  the  papers 
contained  a  telegraphic  account  of  our  defeat  at  Cedai 
Creek.  And,  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day, 
Lucy  Poythress  walked  into  the  Carters'  back  parlor. 
Her  eyes  were  red  and  swollen. 

"  Have  you  any  news  ?"  asked  Alice,  anxiously. 

"  Here  is  a  letter  from  Edmund." 

"  Then  he  is  safe,  thank  God  !" 

"  Not  exactly.  The  poor  child  was  shot  through  the 
thigh.  Mr.  Whacker  is  unhurt." 

"  And  Captain  Smith  ?" 

Lucy's  lips  quivered. 

"Not  killed?"  cried  Alice,  clasping  her  hands. 

"  No,  but  dangerously  wounded, — very.  Here  is  Ed 
mund's  letter  to  mother." 

Alice  read  it  aloud.  He  gave  an  account  of  the  bat 
tle,  making  light  of  his  own  wound  ("  The  rascals 
popped  me  in  the  second  joint"),  but  represented  his 
captain's  as  very  serious.  The  captain  had  advised  him 
to  remain  in  Harrisonburg,  but  had  himself  gone  to 
Taylor's  Springs,  four  miles  distant.  As  for  himself, 
he  was  in  luck 

"  Who  do  you  think  is  my  nurse  ?  Why,  Miss  Mary 
Eolfe!  The  battle  caught  her  in  Middletown,  nursing 
a  Confederate  soldier;  and  when,  in  the  afternoon,  the 
enemy  showed  signs  of  an  intention  to  attack,  the  cap 
tain  sent  me,  with  an  ambulance-wagon,  to  Miss  Mary. 
I  was  to  tell  her  that  in  my  opinion  (that  is  what  he 
told  me  to  say)  it  would  be  safest  for  her  to  move  her 
patient  to  the  rear.  And  here  she  is  now ;  and  a  gen 
tler  nurse  no  one  ever  had.  He  never  mentioned  her 
name  to  me;  but  she  tells  me  that  she  knew  him 
slightly,  once.  It  is  a  pity  he  went  off  to  Taylor's, 
for  she  would  have  nursed  him,  too,  I  am  sure. 

"  He  told  me  a  lot  of  things  to  tell  you  about  my 
self,  but  I  shan't  repeat  them,  as  I  don't  think  I  be- 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  465 

Laved  any  better  than  hundreds  of  others  that  I  saw 
around  me.  I  could  not  help  crying  when  they  took 
him  from  his  cot  by  my  side ;  for  from  the  way  he 
told  me  good-by,  I  saw  that  he  did  not  expect  ever  to 
see  me  again.  No  brother  was  ever  kinder  than  he 
has  been  to  me.  The  last  thing  he  said  to  me  was  to 
give  his  dear,  dear  love  to  you,  (those  were  his  words), 
and  to  say  that  he  relied  on  you  to  keep  your  promise. 
I  asked  him  what  promise,  but  he  said  never  mind,  she 
will  remember." 

In  conclusion,  Edmund  besought  his  mother  to  come 
on  to  see  him.  Miss  Mary  was  as  good  as  could  be, 
but,  after  all,  one's  mother  was  different,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

"What  promise  could  he  have  alluded  to?"  asked 
A.lice. 

"  That  is  just  what  I  asked  mother,"  said  Lucy.  "  Do 
you  believe  in  presentiments,  Alice  ?  I  do ;  and  when 
mother  told  me  what  her  promise  to  the  Don  was" 
(here  Charley,  who  had  not  spoken  a  word,  rose  and 
left  the  room),  "  I  was  filled  with  dreadful  forebodings. 
You  know  that  during  the  latter  part  of  his  stay  down 
in  the  country,  before  joining  the  army,  the  Don  spent 
a  great  deal  of  his  time  with  us.  One  afternoon  we 
were  taking  a  little  stroll,  before  tea,  Mr.  Frobisher 
walking  with  me,  and,  some  distance  behind  us,  the  Don, 
with  mother.  She  stopped  at  our  family  cemetery  to 
set  out  some  plants ;  and  she  tells  me  that  it  was  on 
this  occasion  that  she  made  him  the  promise  in  ques 
tion. 

"  She  says  that  when  she  pointed  out  to  him  the 
spot  that  she  had  selected  for  her  own  resting-place,  he 
looked  down  for  some  time,  and  then  said  that  he  had 
a  favor  to  ask  her. 

" '  I  am  to  join  the  army,  next  week,'  said  he. 

"  '  Well  ?'  said  she. 

" '  There  is  no  fighting  without  danger/  said  he. 
'  Suppose  I  should  fall  ?' 

"  'Oh,  I  hope  not!'  said  mother. 

"  '  Yes  ;  but  in  case  I  do  ?  This,  you  say,  is  the  spot 
you  have  chosen  for  yourself.  If  I  fall — would  you 
give  me  two  yards  of  earth  just  here,  at  your  feet  ?  I 


466  THE  STORF  OF  DON  MIFF. 

would  not  be  in  the  way  there,  would  I?'  Mother 
makes  a  longer  story  of  it,  and  an  affecting  one.  When 
she  gave  him  her  word  (mother  took  the  greatest  fancy 
to  the  Don  from  the  first  day  she  saw  him)  she  says 
he  was  more  deeply  moved  than  she  should  have 
thought  it  possible  for  a  big,  strong  man  to  be  by 
such  a  thing.  This  is  th.e  promise  he  alludes  to ;  and 
I  have  a  painful  presentiment  that — " 

"  Mr.  Frobisher  recovered  from  an  equally  severe 
wound." 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  but—" 

"Miss  Alice,"  said  a  servant,  entering  the  parlor, 
"  there  is  a  soldier  at  the  door,  who  wants  to  speak  to 
Marse  Charley." 

Alice,  going  into  the  hall,  found  a  man  standing 
there.  He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves  as  to  his  right 
arm,  which  was  bound  in  splints. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  see  Major  Frobishor  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am  ;  I  have  a  letter  for  him." 

"  You  may  give  it  to  me ;  I  am  his  wife." 

"  Beggin'  your  pai'don,  ma'am,  my  orders  was  to  give 
it  to  him,  and  nobody  else." 

"Very  well.  Won't  you  come  in  and  have  some 
thing  to  eat?" 

"Thank  you,  ma'am;  I  shouldn't  mind  a  bite,  if  it 
wasn't  too  much  trouble." 

"  Walk  in  and  sit  down  while  the  servant  is  getting 
something  for  you.  You  look  tired.  I  hope  your  arm 
is  not  much  hurt." 

"  Well,  sort  o'.  They  broke  it  for  me  at  Cedar  Creek ; 
but  I  got  a  furlough  by  it,  and  can  see  my  wife  and 
children  ;  so  tain't  worth  mentionin'." 

"  Cedar  Creek  I  Do  you  know  Captain  Smith  ?  How 
is  he  ?" 

"  He  is  my  captain,  ma'am,  and  he  was  the  one  what 
writ  the  letter.  He  is  pretty  bad,  I  am  afeard." 

"  This  is  Major  Frobisher,"  said  Alice,  as  Charley  en 
tered  the  room.  Charley  read  the  note  and  put  it  hur 
riedly  into  his  pocket.  After  asking  the  man  a  few 
questions,  he  was  about  to  leave  the  room : 

"  Won't  you  let  me  see  it  ?"  asked  Alice. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  467 

"Not  yet,"  said  Charley;  and  thanking  the  soldier, 
he  went  up-stairs  to  his  room. 

Alice  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock  ;  and  when  she 
went  up-stairs,  later,  to  beg  him  to  come  down  to  tea, 
she  did  not  find  him  in  the  room.  An  hour  afterwards 
he  came  in,  saying  that  he  had  been  to  see  Mrs.  Poy- 
thress, — that  she  was  to  set  out  for  Harrisonburg  in 
the  morning,  and  that  he  was  going  with  her. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Alice  urged  his  weak  condition. 
"A  friend  is  a  friend,"  he  kept  repeating.  And  so 
Alice  set  about  packing  his  valise.  Just  as  she  had 
finished  this  little  task  the  baby  stirred ;  Alice  went  up 
to  his  crib  and  patted  him  till  he  thought  better  of  it, 
and  nestled  down  into  his  pillow  again. 
•  "Theodoric!  I  think  it  such  a  pretty  name!  The- 
idea  of  my  thinking  you  were  going  to  call  him  Peter! 
Won't  you  tell  me  something  of  his  namesake,  Lucy's 
brother  ?  Mother  tells  me  that  she  vaguely  remembers 
that  there  was  some  dreadful  mystery  about  his  loss, 
which  occurred  when  I  was  about  four  years  old  ;  but 
she  did  not  know  the  Poythresses  at  that  time,  and 
does  not  remember  any  of  the  details,  if  she  ever  knew 
them,  in  fact.  Lucy,  in  explaining  the  scene  at  the 
christening  yesterday,  told  me  it  was  a  long  story, 
and  a  sad  one,  so  I  did  not  press  her.  But  won't 
you  tell  me?  You  never  tell  me  anything.  Now  be 
good,  for  once !" 

Alice  was  bringing  to  bear  upon  her  obdurate  hus 
band  the  battery  of  all  her  cajoleries,  when,  to  her 
surprise,  he  surrendered  at  once. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "since  our  child  is  named  in  his 
honor,  I  will  tell  you  the  story  of  Theodoric  Poy- 
thress." 

In  the  next  chapter  that  story  will  be  found  ;  though 
not  in  as  colloquial  a  form  as  that  in  which  Charley 
actually  told  it,  and  with  most  of  Alice's  interruptions 
omitted. 


468  THE  STORV  OF  DON  MIFF. 


CHAPTER  LXXVII. 

"  THEODORIO  was  the  eldest  son  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Poy 
thress.  He  was  born  on  the  15th  day  of  April,  1832,  I 
on  the  2d  of  the  preceding  March ;  so  that  I  was  his 
senior  by  six  weeks.  Our  intimacy  began  when  we 
were  not  more  than  six  years  old.  Mr.  Poythress  had 
a  tutor  for  Theodoric  at  that  period,  by  whom  half  a 
dozen  of  the  neighbors'  sons  were  taught,  myself 
among  the  number.  I  was  put  across  the  River  every 
morning ;  but  there  was  an  understanding  between  my 
mother  and  Mrs.  Poythress  that  whenever  the  weather 
grew  threatening,  I  was  to  be  allowed  to  spend  the 
night  with  Theodoric.  During  the  winter  and  early 
spring  there  was  hardly  a  week  that  I  did  not  pass  at 
least  one  night  with  him ;  he,  in  turn,  spending  Friday 
night  and  Saturday  with  me.  Ah,  how  happy  we 
were !  When  two  congenial  boys  are  thrown  together 
in  that  way,  they  get  about  as  much  out  of  life  as  is  to 
be  gotten  at  any  other  age.  I  can  recall  but  one 
quarrel  that  we  ever  had ;  and  that  was  when  I  said, 
one  day,  that  my  mother  was,  beyond  doubt,  the  best 
woman  in  the  world.  We  compromised  the  matter,  in 
the  end,  by  reciprocal  admissions  that  the  mother  of 
each  was  best  to  him. 

"  I  think  few  boys  were  ever  better  friends  than  we ; 
and  for  the  reason,  no  doubt,  that  we  differed  so.  Even 
as  a  boy  I  had  an  indolent,  easy-going  way  of  taking 
things  as  they  came.  My  anger,  too,  was  hard  to 
arouse,  and  as  easy  to  appease ;  while  his  was  sudden 
and  fierce,  and,  I  am  sorry  to  add,  implacable.  And 
this  is  true  generally,  notwithstanding  the  proverb.  It 
may  be  that  people  who  give  waj7  to  little  gusts  of 
temper  soon  forget  their  wrath;  but  my  observation 
has  taught  me  that  unappeasable,  undying  resentment 
is  always  found  associated  with  readiness  to  take 
offence.  This,  at  any  rate,  was  Theodoric's  disposition." 

"  I  trust,"  said  Alice,  "  that  our  boy  will  not  re- 
semble  him  in  that  respect." 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  469 

"  I  hope  not.  But  that  was  the  only  serious  defect 
in  his  character ;  in  my  partial  eyes,  at  least.  He  was 
generous,  chivalrous,  truth  itself,  absolutely  unselfish, 
and,  withal,  paradoxical  as  it  may  appear,  as  tender 
hearted  as  a  girl.  I  remember  a  little  incident  which 
shows  this.  One  day,  as  we  school-boys  were  racing 
about  the  lawn  during  recess,  a  wretched-looking  man 
walked  up  to  us  and  asked  for  food.  He  was  the  first 
beggar  we  had  ever  seen,  and  two  or  three  of  us  ran 
into  the  kitchen  and  returned  with  enough  for  five 
men.  While  he  ate,  the  drunken  old  humbug, — for 
such  he  proved  to  be, — taking  advantage  of  our  sim 
plicity,  wrought  powerfully  on  our  sympathies  by 
recounting  the  tale  of  his  woes.  He  had  not  tasted 
food  for  two  days. 

" '  Why  did  you  not  buy  something  to  eat  ?'  asked 
Theodoric,  with  quivering  lip. 

"  '  I  hadn't  any  money.' 

"  '  Then  why  didn't  you  go  home  to  your  friends?' 

" '  I  ain't  got  no  home  and  no  friends.' 

"Whereupon  Theodoric  burst  into  a  loud  boohoo. 
Some  of  the  boys  began  to  titter;  and  I  think  I  was 
just  beginning  to  despise  him,  a  little,  as  a  cry-baby, 
when  his  mother,  who  stood  near,  threw  her  arms 
around  him,  and  said,  with  brimming  eyes  and  choking 
voice,  '  God  will  remember  these  tears  one  day,  my 
precious  boy !'  " 

Alice  rose,  and,  stealing  softly  to  her  baby,  bent 
over  and  kissed  him. 

"  You  said,  just  now,  that  you  hoped  our  boy  would 
not  resemble  his  namesake." 

"  I  take  that  back." 

"  You  will  say  so  all  the  more  when  I  have  shown 
you  what  kind  of  a  son  he  was  to  that  mother. 

"  I  believe  that  the  English  race  surpasses  all  others  in 
respect  for  woman ;  and  I  think  that,  of  the  English 
race,  the  Americans  are  superior  to  their  brethren 
across  the  water  in  this  regard.  And  I  believe,  too,  that 
it  will  hardly  be  denied  that,  among  Americans,  South 
erners  are  conspicuous  for  this  virtue.  Arid  it  seems 
to  me  that  of  respect  for  woman,  the  love  for  one's 
40 


470  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

mother  is  the  very  crown,  and  blossom,  and  glory.  It 
means  manliness,  it  means  soul,  it  means  a  gratefuj 
heart.  It  is  unwritten  poetry;  and  if  that  be  so,  then 
the  life  of  the  boy  after  whom  we  have  named  our  boy 
was  one  beautiful  lyric. 

"  His  mother  had  a  great  fund  of  fairy-tales  and  other 
stories,  which  she  used  to  tell  us  after  supper.  I  can 
see  him  now,  sitting  on  a  low  stool  at  her  feet, — he 
would  never  sit  anywhere  else, — with  hands  clasped 
over  her  knees,  drinking  in  the  story,  while  his  eyes 
clung  to  the  gentle  face  of  the  story-teller  with  a  kind 
of  rapt  adoration.  And  such  eyes !  now  flashing  with 
fierce  indignation  at  one  turn  of  the  story,  now  melting 
with  tenderness  at  another ! 

"  And  she  could  never  pass  him  without  his  throwing 
his  arms  around  her  and  tip-toeing  for  a  kiss.  'Another ! 
another!  another!'  he  kept  pleading.  'Go  away,  you 
silly  boy!'  she  would  say;  but  more  than  once  I 
caught  her,  behind  the  door,  after  one  of  these  little 
scenes,  wiping  her  eyes  with  her  apron.  And  once,  when 
Theodoric  had  left  the  room,  and  I,  in  my  simplicit}'', 
asked  her  what  was  the  matter,  she  burst  into  a  sob. 
'Nothing,  my  child,'  she  said;  'only,  I  am  too  happy.' 

"  It  was  hard—" 

Charley  rose  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room 
three  or  four  times. 

"  It  was  hard  to  lose  such  a  boy  as  that !" 

Alice  was  silent. 

"  His  love  for  his  mother  was  his  religion.  And  this 
brings  me  to  the  sad  part  of  my  story. 

"We  Virginians  are  in  the  habit  of  denouncing  New 
England  puritanism ;  unaware,  seemingly,  that  Yir- 
ginia  numbers  among  her  people  thousands  of  puri 
tans." 

Alice  looked  up,  but  said  nothing. 

"And  how  could  it  have  been  otherwise?  Are  not 
we,  equally  with  the  New  Englandere,  English  ?  But, 
as  the  people  who  came  over  in  the  'Mayflower' 
belonged  to  a  different  class  of  English  society  from 
those  who  sailed  with  Captain  John  Smith"  (Charley 
stopped  speaking  for  a  moment,  then  went  on),  "our 


THE  STORF  OF  DON  MIFF.  471 

puritanism  has  assumed  a  shape  so  different  from  that 
of  Massachusetts,  that  we  have  failed  to  recognize  it. 
The  aristocratic  element  of  our  colonists  was  so  strong 
and  numerous,  that  it  gave  a  tone  to  our  society  which 
it  has  never  lost.  And  it  is  because  the  maxim  that 
an  Englishman's  house  is  his  castle  has,  among  people 
of  a  certain  social  standing,  a  meaning  far  wider  than 
its  merely  legal  one,  that  puritanism  never  became 
blatant  with  us.  Hence,  though  it  exists  among  us, — 
often  in  the  most  intense  form, — we  have  ignored  it." 

Alice  shook  her  head,  slowly :  "  I  can't  make  out 
what  you  mean." 

"  Well,  then,  to  come  to  concrete  examples, — Mr. 
Poythress." 

"  Mr.  Poythress !" 

"  There  lives  not  a  more  intense  puritan.  You  have 
failed  to  remark  it,  because  he  is  a  gentleman.  That 
forbids  his  ramming  his  personal  convictions  down  other 
people's  throats.  He  is  a  puritan  for  himself  and  his 
family  only.  Nothing  could  induce  him  to  harbor  a 
bottle  of  wine  under  his  roof;  but  believing  that  every 
Virginian's  house  is  his  castle,  he  is  equally  incapable 
of  resenting  its  presence  on  the  Elmington  table.  I 
have  a  story  about  him  that  you  have  never  heard. 

"  Years  ago,  he  gave  up  the  use  of  liquors  of  all  kinds. 
For  some  time,  however,  his  guests  were  as  liberally 
supplied  as  ever.  But  at  last  he  gave  a  dinner  at 
which  only  his  rarest  and  most  costly  wines  were 
brought  on  the  table ;  so  that  some  of  the  gentlemen 
even  remonstrated  at  his  pouring  out,  like  water, 
Madeira  that  his  father  had  imported.  What  was  the 
gastronomic  horror  of  these  gentlemen  to  learn,  a  few 
days  afterwards,  that  he  had  caused  every  barrel  in  his 
cellar  to  be  rolled  out  on  his  lawn,  where,  with  an  axe 
in  his  own  hands,  he  staved  in  the  head  of  every  one. 
From  that  day  to  this  there  has  not  been  a  gill  of  wine 
or  brandy  in  his  house.  Yet,  to  mention  the  '  Maine 
liquor  law'  to  him  is  to  shake  a  red  flag  in  the  face  of 
a  bull.  His  aversion  to  drinking  is  great;  but  his  love 
of  personal  liberty  is  greater. 

"  Again,  would  it  surprise  you  to  learn  that  not  so 


472  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

very  many  years  ago,  Mr.  Poythress  favored  freeing 
our  slaves  ?" 

"  Mr.  Poythress  an  abolitionist  1"  cried  Alice,  in 
horrified  amazement. 

"  No,"  replied  Charley,  smiling,  "  he  was  nothing  of 
the  kind.  He  was  an  emancipationist." 

"  I  fail  to  see  the  difference." 

"  They  are  about  as  much  alike  as  chalk  and  cheese. 
The  Virginia  emancipationists,  of  whom  a  considerable 
and  growing  party  existed  at  the  time  of  which  I  speak, 
favored  the  gradual  manumission  of  their  own  slaves. 
An  abolitionist  is  for  freeing  some  one  else's.  Mr 
Poythress  quietly  spilt  his  own  valuable  wine  on  his 
lawn.  Had  he  been  an  abolitionist,  he  would  have 
headed  a  mob  to  burst  the  barrels  of  his  neighbors." 

"  Mr.  Poythress  an  emancipationist, — well !" 

"  I  don't  wonder  at  your  surprise ;  for  he  is  now  the 
most  ardent  advocate  of  slavery  that  I  know.  He 
positively  pities  all  those  benighted  countries  where  it 
does  not  exist.  The  abolitionists  have  converted  an 
enthusiastic  apostle  of  emancipation  into  an  ardent 
pro-slavery  champion ;  so  infuriated  is  ho  that  the 
Northern  people  are  unwilling  for  us  to  get  rid  of 
slavery  as  they  did,  and  as  the  nations  of  Europe  have 
done, — gradually,  and  without  foreign  interference; 
and  a  man  who  once  looked  upon  the  institution  as  a 
blot  upon  our  civilization,  now  regards  it  as  its  crown 
of  glory. 

"  I  have  given  you  these  details  that  you  may 
thoroughly  understand  what  kind  of  a  man  Theodoric's 
father  was.  He  was,  in  fact,  a  puritan  in  every  fibre 
of  his  soul.  He  looked  upon  the  world  as  a  dark  valley, 
through  which  we  had  to  pass  on  our  way  to  a  better ; 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  any  hilarity  on  the  part  of 
us  poor  wayfarers  smacked  of  frivolity,  to  use  the 
mildest  term.  Dancing  he  never  allowed  under  his 
roof,  and  secular  music  he  rated  as  a  snare  for  the  feet 
of  the  unwary.  Therefore  he  shook  his  head  with  un 
affected  uneasiness  when  he  discovered  in  Theodoric, 
at  a  very  early  age,  a  passionate  love  for  this  half- 
wicked  form  of  noise.  And  so,  when,  year  after  year, 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  473 

as  Theodoric's  birthday  came  round,  and  the  hoy, 
when  asked  what  he  wanted,  always  answered,  a  fiddle, 
his  father  put  his  foot  down.  At  last,  on  his  thirteenth 
birthday,  a  compromise  was  effected.  Theodoric  got 
a  flute ;  an  instrument  which  Mr.  Poythress  allowed  to 
be  as  nearly  harmless  as  any  could  be  ;  at  least  to  the 
performer.  I  had  been  piping  away  on  one  for  a  year, 
but  he  soon  surpassed  me.  His  progress  pleased  his 
mother,  from  whom,  in  fact,  he  had  inherited  his  love 
for  music  ;  but  his  father  looked  upon  the  time  spent 
practising  as  wasted.  Conscious,  therefore,  that  his 
flute  annoyed  his  father,  he  hit  upon  a  plan  to  give  him 
as  little  of  it  as  possible. 

"  In  a  little  clump  of  trees,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  the  house,  he  constructed  a  music-desk  against 
an  old  tree ;  and  thither  he  repaired,  on  all  fair  after 
noons,  and  played  to  his  heart's  content,  surrounded  by 
an  admiring  audience  of  a  dozen  or  so  dusky  adherents. 

"  It  was  this  harmless  flute  that  brought  on  the  catas 
trophe  that  I  shall  presently  relate. 

"  Mr.  Poythress's  religion,  I  need  hardly  tell  you, 
was  of  the  most  sombre  character.  (I  say  was ;  for  ho 
is  much  changed  since  those  days.)  It  is  singular  how 
extremes  meet  in  everything.  Puritanism  among  the 
Protestants,  and  asceticism  in  the  Catholic  Church, 
each  seek,  by  making  a  hell  of  this  world,  to  win 
heaven  in  the  next.  I  have  said  that  Theodoric  fre 
quently  spent  Saturday  with  me.  He  was  never  allowed 
to  be  absent  from  home  on  Sunday;  and  month  by 
month,  and  year  by  year,  as  he  grew  older,  those  Sun 
days  grew  more  and  more  intolerable  to  him.  It  was 
a  firm  hand  that  crammed  religion  down  his  throat, 
and,  as  a  child,  he  was,  if  wretched,  unresisting.  But 
Theodoric  wras  his  father's  own  son.  He  too  loved 
personal  liberty.  To  be  brief,  the  time  came  when  he 
hated  the  very  name  of  religion ;  and,  when  we  were 
about  thirteen  years  old,  he  often  shocked  me  by  his 
fierce  irreverence.  And,  unfortunately,  his  parents  had 
no  suspicion  of  what  was  going  on  in  his  mind.  His 
love  for  his  mother,  equally  with  his  awe  of  his  father, 
sealed  his  lips. 

40* 


474  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  There  are  those  whose  discontent  is  like  damp  pow 
der  burning.  It  sputters,  flashes,  smokes,  but  does  not 
explode.  But  with  Theodoric,  everything  was  sudden, 
unexpected,  violent.  He  had  immense  self-control; 
but  it  was  that  of  a  boiler,  that  at  one  moment  is  pro 
pelling  a  steamer,  an  instant  later  has  shattered  it. 
There  was  an  element  of  the  irrevocable  and  the  irrep 
arable  in  all  that  he  did. 

"  It  was,  as  I  have  said,  the  hard,  relentless  Sabbata 
rianism  of  Mr.  Poythress  that  bore  hardest  upon  hia 
son.  And,  when  you  think  of  it,  what  a  curse  Sabba 
tarianism  has  been  to  the  world  !  How  the  Protestants 
of  England  and  America  ever  managed  to  ingraft  it 
upon  Christianity  I  could  never  understand ;  for  not 
only  is  it  without  trace  of  authority  in  the  New  Testa 
ment,  but  the  very  founder  of  our  religion  never  lost 
an  opportunity  of  striking  it  a  blow.  And  I  can't  help 
thinking,  sometimes,  that  when  he  said,  Suffer  little 
children  to  come  unto  me,  he  said  it  in  pity  of  their 
tortures  on  this  one  long,  dreary  day  in  every  week. 
But  I  am  getting  away  from  my  story. 

"  One  Sunday — it  was  the  first  after  Theodoric's  four 
teenth  birthday — he  complained  of  headache.  He  did 
not  ask  to  be  excused  from  going  to  church ;  but  the 
day  was  warm,  and  the  road  long  and  dusty,  and  his 
mother  begged  him  off;  and  the  family  coach  went  off 
without  him.  The  party  had  gone  but  a  few  miles, 
when  they  learned  that  owing  to  the  illness  of  the  pas 
tor  there  would  be  no  service  that  day.  So  they  turned 
about. 

"At  last,  hoofs  and  wheels  ploughing  noiselessly 
through  the  heavy  sand,  they  approached  the  little 
clump  of  trees  which  we  have  mentioned.  Suddenly 
an  anxious,  pained  look  came  into  Mrs.  Poythress'a 
face.  Mr.  Poythress  put  his  hand  to  his  ear  and  listened. 
An  angry  flush  overspread  his  countenance. 

"  '  Stop !'  cried  he  to  the  coachman. 

"  There  could  be  no  doubt  about  it :  it  was  Theodoric'8 
flute,  and — shades  of  John  Knox! — playing  a  jig. 

"  Mr.  Poythress  opened  the  door  with  a  quick  push  and 
stepped  out.  '  Go  on  to  the  house,'  said  he  to  the  driver, 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  475 

"  A  moment  later,  the  carriage  turned  a  corner  of  the 
little  wood,  and  Mrs.  Poythress  saw  her  boy,  seated 
upon  a  log,  playing  away,  while  in  front  of  him  a 
negro  lad,  of  about  his  age,  was  dancing  for  dear  life. 
A  gang  of  happy  urchins  stood  around  them  with  open 
mouths.  Mr.  Poythress  was  sti'iding  down  upon  the 
party  unperceived. 

"  The  off  horse,  annoyed  by  the  dust,  gave  a  snort. 

"  One  glance  was  enough  for  the  audience ;  and  panic- 
stricken,  they  were  off  in  an  instant,  like  a  covey  of 
partridges. 

"  The  musician  and  the  dancer  had  not  heard  the 
horse,  and  followed,  for  an  instant,  with  puzzled  looks, 
the  backs  of  the  fugitive  sinners. 

"When  Theodoric  saw  his  father  bearing  rapidly 
down  upon  him,  he  rose  from  his  rustic  seat  and  stood, 
with  downcast  look  and  pale  face,  awaiting  his  ap 
proach.  The  dancer  turned  to  run. 

'"Stop,  sir!" 

"  The  father  stood  towering  above  the  son,  shaking 
from  head  to  foot. 

"  '  Give  me  that  flute,  sir !'  And  seizing  it,  he  broke  it 
into  a  dozen  pieces  against  the  log. 

"The boy  stood  perfectly  still,  with  his  arms  hanging 
by  his  side  and  his  head  bowed. 

"'You  are  silent!  I  am  glad  that  you  have  some 
sense  of  shame,  at  any  rate !  To  think  that  a  son  of 
mine  should  do  such  a  thing!  When  I  am  done  with 
you,  you  will  know  better  for  the  future,  I  promise 
you.'  And  cutting  a  branch  from  a  neighboring  tree, 
he  began  to  trim  it.  'And  not  content  with  desecrat 
ing  the  day  yourself,  you  must  needs  teach  my  servants 
to  do  so.  How  often  have  I  not  told  you  that  we 
were  responsible  for  their  souls  ?' 

" '  Lor',  mahrster,'  chattered  the  terrified  dancer, 
'  Marse  The.,  he  didn't  ax  me  to  dance,  'fo'  Gaud  he 
didn't.  I  was  jess  a-passin'  by,  an'  I  hear  de  music, 
and  somehownuther  de  debbil  he  jump  into  my  heel. 
'Twan't Marse  The.,  'twas  me;  leastwise  de  old  debbil 
he  wouldn't  lemme  hold  my  foot  on  de  groun',  and  &o  I 
jess  sort  o'  give  one  or  two  backsteps,  an'  cut  two  or 


476  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

three  little  pigeon-wings,  jess  as  I  was  a-passin'  by 
like.1 

" '  Yery  well,  I  shan't  pass  you  by.' 

" '  Yes,  mahrster,  but  I  didn't  fling  down  de  steps 
keen,  like  'twas Sad'day  night,  'deed  I  didn't,  mahrster; 
and  I  was  jess  a-sayin'  as  how  Marse  The.  didn't  ax 
me ;  de  ole  debbil,  he — ' 

"'Shut  up,  sir!' 

"'  Yes,  mahrster!' 

"Theodoric  gave  a  quick,  grateful  glance  at  his 
brother  sinner. 

"  Although  he  was  without  coat  or  vest, — for  the  day 
was  warm, — he  did  not  wince  when  the  blows  fell 
heavy  and  fast  upon  his  shoulders.  At  last  his  father 
desisted,  and  turned  to  the  negro  lad. 

"  Mr.  Poythress  had  never,  in  the  memory  of  this 
boy,  punished  one  of  his  servants ;  but  seeing  that  this 
precedent  was  in  a  fair  way  of  being  reversed  in  his 
case,  he  began  to  plead  for  mercy  with  all  the  volubility 
of  untutored  eloquence.  Meantime,  he  found  extreme 
difficulty  in  removing  his  coat ;  for  his  heart  was  not 
in  the  work ;  and  before  he  got  off  the  second  sleeve 
he  had  pledged  himself  nebber  to  do  so  no  mo'  in  a 
dozen  keys. 

"  Theodoric  stepped  between  his  father  and  the  culprit. 

"  '  I  take  all  the  blame  on  myself.  If  there  is  to  be 
any  more  flogging,  give  it  to  me.' 

"  His  father  pushed  him  violently  aside,  and  aimed  a 
stroke  at  the  young  negro  ;  but  Theodoric  sprang  in 
front  of  him  and  received  the  descending  rod  upon  his 
shoulders. 

"Was  this  magnanimity?  or  was  it  not  rebellion, 
rather  ? 

" '  Do  you  presume  to  dictate  to  me  ?' 

" '  I  do  not.     I  simply  protest  against  an  injustice.' 

"  These  were  not  the  words  of  a  boy,  nor  was  the 
look  a  boy's  look  ;  but  his  father,  blinded  by  the  odium 
theologicum,  could  not  see  that  a  man's  spirit  shone  in 
those  dark,  kindling  eyes. 

"'How  dare  you!'  said  the  father,  seizing  him  by 
the  arm. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  477 

"The  boy  held  his  ground. 

"  This  resistance  maddened  Mr.  Poythress,  and  tfre 
rod  came  down  with  a  sounding  whack.  It  was  one 
blow  too  many ! 

"  Instantly  the  boy  tossed  back  his  head,  and  folding 
his  arms,  met  his  father's  angry  look  with  one  of  calm 
ferocity. 

"  The  look  of  an  Indian  at  the  stake,  defying  his 
enemies ! 

"  The  blows  came  thick  and  heavy.  Not  a  muscle 
moved ;  while  the  lad  who  stood  behind  him  writhed 
with  an  agony  that  was  half  fear,  half  sympathy.  At 
last  he  could  endure  it  no  longer.  Coming  forward, 
he  laid  his  hand,  timidly,  on  his  master's  arm. 

" '  He  nuvver  ax  me  to  dance,  mahrster,  'deed  he 
nuvver!  For  de  love  o'  Gaud  let  Marse  The.  'lone, 
an'  gimme  my  shear !  My  back  tougher'n  his'n,  heap 
tougher !' 

"  His  master  pushed  him  aside,  but  the  lad  came  for 
ward  again,  this  time  grasping  the  terrible  right  arm. 

"  '  Have  mussy,  mahrster,  have  mussy !  Stop  jess  one 
minute  and  look  at  Marse  The.  back, — he  shirt  soakin' 
wid  blood !' 

"At  these  words  Mr.  Poythress  came  to  himself. 
'  Take  your  coat  and  vest  and  follow  me  to  the  house, 
sir,'  said  he. 

"  They  found  Mrs.  Poythress  pacing  nervously  up 
and  down  the  front  porch. 

" '  He  will  not  play  any  more  jigs  on  Sunday,  that  I 
promise  you.  Go  to  your  room,  sir,  and  do  nOt  leave 
it  again  to-day.' 

"  The  mother,  divining  what  had  happened,  said 
nothing;  but  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  The  boy 
turned  his  face  aside,  and  his  lips  twitched  as  he  passed 
her,  on  his  way  into  the  house.  Just  as  he  entered  the 
door,  she  gave  a  cry  of  horror  and  sprang  forward ; 
and  though  the  boy  struggled  hard  to  free  himself,  she 
dragged  him  back  upon  the  porch. 

" '  What  is  this,  Mr.  Poythress?  What  do  you  mean, 
sir?'  she  almost  shrieked. 

"Every  family  must  have  a  head;   and  Mr.  Poy- 


478  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

threes  was  the  head  of  his.  Few  women  could  have 
stood  up  long  against  his  firm  will  and  his  clear-cut, 
vigorous  convictions.  At  any  rate,  acquiescence  in 
whatever  he  thought  and  did  had  become  a  second 
nature  with  his  gentle  wife ;  who  had  come  to  look 
upon  him  as  a  model  of  wisdom,  virtue,  and  piety. 
She  had  even  reached  the  point,  by  degrees,  of  heartily 
accepting  his  various  isms ;  and  though  she  sometimes 
winced  under  the  austere  puritanism  that  marked  the 
restrictions  he  imposed  upon  their  boy,  she  never 
doubted  that  it  was  all  for  the  best.  Yery  well,  she 
would  end  by  saying,  I  suppose  you  are  right.  There 
were  no  disputes, — hardly  any  discussions  under  the 
Oak  hurst  roof. 

"  Imagine,  therefore,  the  scene,  when  this  soft-eyed 
woman,  dragging  her  son  up  to  his  father,  pointed  to 
his  bloody  back  with  quivering  finger  and  a  face  on 
fire  with  eloquent  indignation  1 

"  '  Were  you  mad  ?  What  fiend  possessed  you  ?  And 
such  a  son !  Merciful  Father,'  she  cried,  with  clasped 
hands,  '  what  have  I  done,  that  I  should  see  such  a 
eight  as  this !  Come,'  said  she ;  and  taking  her  son's 
arm,  she  hurried  him  to  his  room,  leaving  Mr.  Poy- 
thress  speechless  and  stunned ;  as  well  by  shame  as  by 
the  suddenness  of  her  passionate  invective. 

"  There  she  cut  the  shirt  from  his  back,  and  after 
washing  away  the  blood,  helped  him  to  dress.  '  Now 
lie  down,'  said  she. 

"He  did  as  he  was  bidden;  obeying  her,  mechanic 
ally,  in  all  things.  But  he  spoke  not  a  single  word. 

"She  left  the  room  and  came  back,  an  hour  after 
wards.  His  position  was  not  changed  in  the  least. 
Even  his  eyes  were  still  staring  straight  in  front  of 
him,  just  as  when  she  left  the  room.  She  said,  after 
wards,  that  there  was  no  anger  in  his  look,  but  dead 
despair  only.  When  she  asked  if  he  would  come  down 
to  dinner,  there  was  a  change.  He  gave  her  one 
searching  glance  of  amazement,  then  fixed  his  eyes  on 
the  wall  again.  At  supper-time  he  came  down-stairs, 
but  passed  by  the  dining-room  door  without  stopping. 
His  mot  her  called  to  him,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  hear. 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  479 

He  returned  in  half  an  hour,  and  went  to  his  room. 
He  had  gone,  as  she  afterwards  learned,  to  the  cabin 
of  the  negro  lad,  and  called  him  out.  '  You  stood  by 
me  to-day,'  said  he.  '  I  have  come  to  thank  you.  I 
shan't  forget  it,  that's  all.'  And  he  wrung  his  hand  and 
returned  to  the  house. 

"  At  eleven  his  mother  found  him  lying  on  his  bed, 
dressed.  '  Get  up,  my  darling,  and  undress  yourself 
and  go  to  bed.' 

"  He  rose,  and  she  threw  her  arms  around  him. 

"Presently,  releasing  himself,  gently,  from  her  em 
brace,  he  placed  his  hands  upon  her  shoulders,  and  hold 
ing  her  at  arm's  length,  gave  her  one  long  look  of  un 
approachable  tenderness;  then  suddenly  clasping  her 
in  his  arms,  and  covering  her  face  with  devouring 
kisses,  he  released  her. 

"  '  Good-night,  my  precious  boy  !' 

"He  made  no  reply;  and  she  had  hardly  begun  to 
descend  the  stairs  before  she  heard  the  key  turn  in  the 
lock. 

"  The  poor  mother  could  not  sleep.  At  three  o'clock 
she  had  not  closed  her  eyes.  She  rose  and  stole  up 
stairs.  His  door  stood  open.  She  ran,  breathless,  into 
the  room. 

"  A  flood  of  moonlight  lay  upon  his  bed.  The  bed 
was  empty.  Her  boy  was  gone ! 

"To  this  day  she  has  never  been  able  to  learn  his 
fate." 

"  How  terrible !" 

"  And  now  you  see  why  I  was  so  agitated  at  the 
christening  of  our  boy,  and  why  I  looked  so  grim,  as 
you  said.  I  was  determined,  at  all  hazards,  to  name 
him  Theodoric.  But  I  did  not  know  how  Mr.  Poy- 
thress  would  take  it.  I  was  delighted  when  I  saw  that 
his  heart  was  touched  by  my  tribute  to  his  son." 

"  Yesterday  and  to-day  you  have  been  tried  severely. 
Go  to  bed  and  get  some  sleep." 

"I  will." 

"  Would  you  mind  letting  me  read,  now,  the  Don's 
letter?" 

Charley  bent  his  head  in  thought  for  a  while.    "  Yes," 


480  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

said  he,  drawing  the  letter  from  his  pocket,  "  you  may 
read  it,"     And  handing  it  to  her,  ho  left  the  room. 

With  trembling  fingers  she  opened  it,  and  read  ae 
follows : 

"  TAYLOR'S  SPRINGS,  Tuesday. 

"MY  BELOVED  CHARLEY: 

"  It  wrings  my  heart  to  have  to  tell  you,  but  I  fear 
it  is  all  over  with  me.  For  several  days  I  have  been 
growing  consciously  weaker,  and  just  now  I  overheard 
the  surgeon  say  to  my  nurse  that  I  could  not  live  a 
week.  Come  to  me,  if  you  can  with  prudence.  It 
would  not  be  so  lonely,  dying,  with  my  hand  clasped 
in  yours.  And  oh !  if  she  could  come  too ;  but  with 
out  knowing  to  whom ;  I  insist  on  that.  Tell  her  (I 
leave  the  time  to  you) — tell  her,  that  when  she  follows 
after,  she  will  find  me  sitting  without  the  Golden  Grate, 
waiting — waiting  to  ask  forgiveness,  and  bid  her  fare 
well,  there — or — it  may  be — to  enter  therein,  hand  in 
hand  with  her — perhaps — for  I  have  loved  much. 

"  Come  to  me,  friend  of  friends — if  you  can — but  if 
jiot — farewell,  farewell — and  may  God  bless  you  and 
your  Alice  I 

"  DORY." 

When  Charley  returned,  his  wife  sprang  to  meet 
him. 

"And  'Dory'  means — ?" 
"  Yes,"  said  Charley. 


CHAPTEE  LXXVIIL 

THEY  talked  far  into  the  night.  What  he  told  her 
of  scenes  already  described  in  this  book  it  is  needless 
to  repeat.  But  he  gave  her  some  other  details  which 
may  interest  the  reader. 

"  I  felt  strongly  drawn  toward  him  while  I  nursed 
him  in  this  very  house,  four  years  ago.  There  was 
nothing  supernatural  about  that.  I  suppose  I  liked  him 
because  I  liked  him,  just  as  I  had  done  as  a  boy.  No, 


THE  STORF  OF  DON  MIFF.  481 

I  had  not  the  least  suspicion  who  he  was  at  first;  and 
when,  finally,  I  had  read  his  secret,  I  had  no  intention 
of  letting  him  know  that  he  was  discovered ;  but  I  was 
betrayed  into  doing  so  on  the  occasion  of  the  death  of 
old  Ponto.  We  talked  all  that  night,  and  he  gave  me 
a  sketch  of  his  history." 

That  sketch,  supplemented  by  additional  details  that 
he  had  afterwards,  from  time  to  time,  given  Charley, 
would  fill  a  volume.  For  our  purposes,  it  is  only 
necessary  to  say  that  his  life,  for  some  time  after  he 
left  his  home,  was  one  of  many  hardships  and  vicis 
situdes.  These  came  to  a  sudden  end. 

He  had  found  his  way  to  New  York,  and  was  pick 
ing  up  precarious  pennies  by  playing  the  flute  in  beer- 
saloons,  when  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  touch  the 
heart  of  an  old  man  by  the  pathos  of  his  "  Home, 
Sweet  Home."  This  old  man  was,  as  it  turned  out,  of 
humble  birth,  and  had  amassed  and  retired  on  a  snug 
little  fortune.  He  was  a  Bostonian,  yet  deficient  in 
culture,  as  was  clear ;  for,  though  abundantly  able  to 
pay  for  champagne,  he  was  drinking  beer.  He  had  lost 
an  only  son  years  before,  who,  had  he  lived,  would 
have  been  of  about  Theodoric's  age;  and  when  he  saw 
a  tear  glisten  in  the  boy's  eye  as  he  played  (it  was  his 
own  kind,  sympathetic  look  that  had  evoked  it. — be 
sides,  the  boy  had  not  tasted  food  that  day),  he  stealthily 
slipped  two  half-dollars  into  his  hand.  The  boy  looked 
at  the  money,  looked  at  the  man  ;  then  plunged  through 
the  door  of  the  saloon  into  the  street.  The  look  was 
the  only  thanks  the  old  man  got,  but  he  felt  that  that 
was  enough.  He  followed  him  and  found  him  standing 
in  the  shadow  of  a  booth ;  and  when  he  laid  his  hand 
upon  his  shoulder,  the  boy  began  to  sob. 

Hunger  is  king.  The  pampered  pug  sniffs,  without 
emotion,  boned  turkey  on  a  silver  dish ;  a  gaunt  street- 
cur  whines  over  a  proffered  crust. 

That  very  night  his  new  friend  rigged  him  out  in  a 
new  suit,  and  telegraphed  his  wife  that  he  had  found 
a  boy  for  her.  They  reached  Boston  next  day.  That 
night  a  family  consultation  was  held  between  the  old 
couple;  and  next  morning,  after  breakfast,  they  an- 
v  ff  41 


482  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

nounced  to-Theodoric  that  they  were  to  set  out,  in  two 
days,  for  Europe,  where  they  expected  to  travel  for 
several  yeai-s.  They  were  in  comfortable  circumstances, 
they  told  him,  but  very  lonely  since  the  loss  of  their 
son.  Would  he  go  with  them  ?  If  he  did  not  like  them, 
they  would  send  him  back  to  America  ;  if  he  did,  they 
would  adopt  him  as  their  son.  Theodoric,  though  his 
pride  revolted,  was  so  eager  to  put  the  ocean  between 
himself  and  his  former  home,  that  he  accepted  their 
offer. 

Gratitude  being  a  strong  trait  in  his  character,  he 
soon  grew  deeply  attached  to  his  benefactors,  notwith 
standing  their  lack  of  exterior  polish.  They  idolized 
him.  They  were  both,  especially  his  adopted  mother, 
particularly  proud  of  his  strikingly  aristocratic  air. 
Accordingly,  they  lavished  money  upon  him,  and  con 
stantly  scolded  him  because  he  could  not  be  induced  to 
spend  it.  They  were  made  happy,  one  day,  by  his  re 
questing  permission  to  employ  a  violin  master.  It  was 
the  first  favor,  involving  money,  that  he  had  ever  asked. 

He  had  declined,  from  the  first,  to  reveal  his  name. 
Nor  did  they  press  him,  feeling  that  if  that  were  known, 
it  might  lead  to  their  losing  him.  So  he  took  theirs, — 
a  name  with  which  all  English-speaking  people  are 
familiar;  christening  himself  John,  to  the  deep  chagrin 
of  Mrs.  S.,  who  had  set  her  heart  on  Reginald  de 
Courcy. 

And  philosophers,  who  saw  the  trio,  explained  that 
it  no  longer,  in  these  days  of  steam  and  telegraphs 
and  wide  travel,  took  three  generations  to  make  a 
gentleman. 

The  tour  in  Europe  resulted  in  permanent  residence 
across  the  water.  At  the  end  of  three  years,  the  party 
had  returned  to  Boston,  but  the  old  people  found  that 
such  acquaintances  as  they  had  there  were  no  longer 
to  their  taste.  At  any  rate,  their  society  was  not  good 
enough,  to  their  thinking,  for  John,  who,  they  were  glad 
to  believe,  was  sprung  from  Virginia's  bluest  blood.  So 
they  shook  the  dust  of  America  from  their  feet. 

In  1858  his  kind  adopted  mother  died  in  Paris, — his 
father  a  year  later,  in  London ;  and  Theodoric  found 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  483 

himself  residuary  legatee  in  the  sum  of  nearly  one 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  (twenty-seven 
thousand  pounds). 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  prosperity,  Theodoric  had 
not  been  happy.  At  times  the  thought  of  his  own  sor 
rowing  mother  greatly  troubled  him.  And  when  he 
found  himself  again  alone  in  the  world,  this  feeling 
came  over  him  with  redoubled  force.  Eemorse,  at  last, 
growing  stronger  and  stronger,  gave  him  no  rest  ; 
travel  brought  him  no  alleviation  ;  and  finally,  his 
longing  for  home  becoming  irresistible,  he  took  passage 
for  America,  and  found  himself,  two  weeks  later,  stroll 
ing  through  the  streets  of  Richmond,  with  no  very 
definite  plans  as  to  how  he  should  make  himself  known 
to  his  family.  It  was  on  the  very  day  of  his  arrival 
that  he  encountered  little  Laura,  and  discovered  that 
she  was  his  sister. 

"  What  prevented  him  from  revealing  himself  while 
he  was  in  Leicester,"  said  Charley,  "  was  the  approach 
of  the  war.  He  would  wait  till  peace  came.  His 
mother  had  already  lost  him  once,  he  said.  Once  he 
was  on  the  very  verge  of  betraying  himself.  It  was 
when  you  so  deeply  agitated  him  by  unconsciously 
opening  his  eyes  to  the  fact  that,  though  he  knew  that 
Lucy  was  his  sister,  she  did  not.  Don't  you  remem 
ber?" 

"Kemember!" 


"  And  so  you  are  going  to  escort  Mrs.  Poythress  to 
Harrisonburg  and  Taylor's  Springs  to-morrow  morn 
ing  ?  You  are  not  strong  enough  for  such  a  journey  ; 
but  now  that  I  know  all,  I  too,  say  go.  Are  you  going 
to  tell  his  mother  who  he  is?" 

"  No  ;  he  has  expressly  forbidden  that.  I  am  to 
choose  my  time,  hereafter." 

"  I  think  it  would  be  cruel  ever  to  tell  her.  To  lose 
Buch  a  son  twice  !  No,  let  the  secret  remain  with  you 
and  me  forever." 

"  It  will  be  unavoidable." 

Alice  looked  up. 


484  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"You  see,  he  has  made  a  will,  of  which  I  havo 
possession  ;  and  as,  after  certain  legacies  are  deducted. 
the  residue  of  his  estate  goes  to  his  father  and  his 
mother,  in  equal  shares — " 

"His  father?" 

"Yes.  I  found  no  difficulty  in  convincing  him  that 
his  resentment  against  his  father  was  unjust,  seeing 
that  he  had  punished  him  from  a  sense  of  duty.  The 
influence  that  I  have  over  him  has  always  surprised 
me." 

"  Why  could  you  not  make  him  forgive  Mary  ?" 

"  I  didn't  try.  A  man  has  but  one  father ;  but  as  for 
sweethearts,  there  are  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as — " 

"What!" 

"  Well,  except  one"  . 

"Ah!" 

"Besides,  Mary  opened  an  old  wound.  Bigotry,  as 
he  deemed  it,  had  wrecked  his  life  once,  already.  I 
suspect  that  he  is  very  bitter  against  her." 

"How  sad  that  he  should  be  so  implacable  in  his 
wrath !" 

"He  is  equally  as  'implacable'  in  his  gratitude. 
Would  you  believe  it  ?  He  directs  that  the  freedom 
of  the  lad  who  '  stood  by  him'  be  bought,  and  a  hun 
dred  dollars  counted  into  his  hand  besides.  By  the 
way,  I  forgot  to  mention  that  this  lad  is  none  other 
than  my  man  Sam,  who  passed  into  the  possession  of 
our  family,  by  exchange,  years  ago.  He,  you  remem 
ber,  when  you  and  I  were  sitting  in  the  Argo — a-May- 
ing— " 


CHAPTEE  LXXIX. 

ON  the  piazza  of  a  house  in  Harrisonburg  sat  two 
young  surgeons.  One  of  them  was  on  duty  there; 
the  other  had  driven  in  from  Taylor's  Springs  to  pro 
cure  supplies,  and  his  ambulance-wagon  stood  in  front 
of  the  door. 

"Well," said  the  visitor,  rising,  "I  must  hurry  back." 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  485 

"  Any  serious  cases  ?" 

"  Yes ;  one  more  than  serious.  Captain  Smith — gal 
lant  fellow — pity  I" 

"  Ah,  indeed.  Poor  fellow, — I  feared  so.  He  stopped 
here  for  an  hour  or  so,  then  persisted,  against  my  re 
monstrances,  in  going  out  to  Taylor's.  Well,  good-by. 
Drop  in  whenever  you  are  in  town." 

"  Thank  you,  I  will.     Good-day." 

"Doctor!  doctor!" 

The  voice  was  quick  and  nervous,  and  the  young 
surgeon  hurried  to  the  open  window.  "What  can  I 
do  for  you,  Miss  Rolfe  ?" 

"  Ask  your  friend  to  wait  one  moment,"  said  she,  as 
she  hastily  tied  her  bonnet-strings ;  "  I  want  to  go  to 
Taylor's."  .And  running  to  a  little  closet,  she  drew  forth 
a  shawl. 

The  doctor  had  hardly  had  time  to  deliver  the  mes 
sage  before  Mary  was  on  the  piazza.  "  Can  you  give 
me  a  seat  in  your  wagon  ?" 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  surgeon,  lifting  his  cap. 

He  was  proud  to  have  so  pretty  a  woman  grace  his 
equipage,  and  he  looked  forward  to  a  pleasant  chat 
along  the  road ;  but  he  soon  discovered  that,  though 
she  made  an  effort  to  appear  interested,  she  did  not 
hear  what  he  said.  And  so  he  gave  over  his  effort  to 
entertain  her,  and  they  drove  forward  in  a  silence  that 
was  hardly  broken  till  the  driver  turned  out  of  the 
Port  Republic  Road. 

"Are  we  almost  there?" 

"  It  is  less  than  a  mile  from  here.  We  shall  be  there 
in  a  few  minutes." 

She  gave  a  slight  shiver. 

"  Have  you  any  friends  there,  among  the  wounded?" 

"  Yes — no — that  is,  he  is  not  exactly  a  friend  of  mine. 
He  is  a  friend  of  some  very  dear  friends  of  mine,  who 
would  like  to  know  how  he  is." 

"  Oh,  I  see.  I  am  surgeon  in  charge;  may  I  ask  the 
name  ?" 

"  Captain  Smith." 

"  Captain  Smith  ?" 

"Yes,  of  the  Stonewall  skirmishers." 
41* 


486  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"Oh,  yes.  I  was  speaking  of  him,  to-day,  in  Har- 
risonburg." 

"  Is  his  wound  dangerous  ?" 

"  He  was  shot  through  the  right  lung." 

"Are  such  wounds  very  dangerous?  I  mean,  are 
they  necessarily  fatal  ?" 

"  No,  not  always." 

Then  there  was  silence  for  a  hundred  yards.  Sud 
denly  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice,  "  Do  you  think  there 
is  any  hope  ?" 

The  surgeon  was  silent  for  a  little  while.  "  I  cannot 
give  you  much  encouragement,"  he  said,  at  last. 

She  did  not  speak  again  till  the  wagon  stopped  in 
front  of  the  farm-house,  which  at  that  time  constituted, 
with  the  usual  out-buildings,  Taylor's  Springs.  It  has 
since  been  added  to,  and  the  name  changed  to  Massa- 
netta.  Then,  as  now,  the  waters  of  the  beautiful,  bub 
bling  spring  below  the  house,  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
enjoyed  a  high  repute  as  a  potent  specific  in  cases  of 
malarial  trouble ;  and  a  military  sanitarium  had  been 
established  there,  the  tents  of  which  dotted  the  little 
valley. 

"  The  house,  as  you  see,"  said  the  surgeon,  as  they 
descended  the  slope  from  the  road  to  the  front  door, 
"is  too  small  for  a  hospital;  so  the  men  are  under 
canvas.  Your  friend,  however, — I  mean  your  friends' 
friend, — is  in  the  house.  It  is  right  to  warn  you  that 
you  will  find  him  much  changed.  Or  did  I  understand 
you  to  say  that  you  had  never  met  him  ?" 

"  I  knew  him  once, — years  ago." 

"  Walk  in,"  said  he,  opening  the  door ;  but  she  had 
already  dropped  into  a  chair  that  stood  upon  the 
porch.  "  Ah,  you  are  tired,"  said  he.  "  Let  me  bring 
you  a  glass  of  water.  No?  Is  there  anything  that  I 
can  do  for  you  ?" 

She  shook  her  head,  lifting  her  eyes,  for  a  moment, 
to  his.  That  moment  was  enough, — he  read  them  ;  "  I 
will  leave  you  here  for  a  little  while, — till  you  got 
rested." 

She  bowed  her  head  in  silent  acquiescence. 

Three  or  four  convalescent  soldiers  who  sat  on  the 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  487 

porch  looked  at  her  pale  face,  and  then  at  each  other ; 
and  they  stole  away,  one  by  one,  making  as  little  noise 
as  they  could  with  their  heavy  brogans. 

If  a  man  be  a  man,  he  is  not  far  from  being  a  gentle 
man. 

And  Mary  was  alone  with  her  anguish. 

Two  or  three  times  the  surgeon  stole  to  the  door, 
glanced  at  the  bowed,  motionless  figure,  and  as  often 
retired  within  the  house.  At  last  she  beckoned  him 
to  her  side. 

"  I  am  rested  now,"  she  said.     "  How  is  he  ?" 

"  About  the  same." 

"  Can  I  see  him  ?" 

"  Yes ;  walk  in.  One  moment."  And  stepping  to 
the  second  door  on  the  right-hand  side  of  the  hall,  he 
opened  it  and  beckoned.  A  soldier  came  out  into  the 
hall. 

"Shelton,"  said  he,  "you  can  stroll  around  for  a 
while ;  when  I  want  you  I  will  call  you.  This  way." 
And  he  bowed  Mary  into  the  room  and  closed  the  door 
softly  behind  her. 

"  Poor  girl  I  poor  girl !"  said  he,  shaking  his  head ; 
and  he  left  the  hall. 


CHAPTER  LXXX. 

FOR  a  moment  Mary  stood  with  downcast  eyes ;  then, 
looking  up,  gave  a  start. 

"  Oh — I  beg  your  pardon !  I  was  told  I  should  fh»d 
Captain  Smith  in  this  room,"  said  she,  making  for  the 
door. 

Just  then  the  evening  sun,  which  was  slowly  sink 
ing  in  the  west,  burst  from  behind  a  cloud,  and  poured 
a  stream  of  light  in  the  room.  She  looked  agaiu-  A 
clean-shaven  face  of  chiselled  marble,  as  clear-cut  a>-J  as 
pale.  Could  it  be  he  ? 

"  I  am  Captain  Smith — or  was — " 

"  I  did  not  know  you  without  your  beard." 


488  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

"  The  doctor  had  it  taken  off  to  get  at  the  wound  in 
ray  cheek." 

"  I  can  hardly  believe  you  are  the  same  person.  But 
for  your  eyes,  I —  They  tell  me  you  are  the  same.  I  had 
hoped—" 

Mary  sank  into  a  chair. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  In  my  surprise,  I  forgot  the 
courtesy  due  a  lady." 

"  I  am  not  come  as  a  lady,  but  as  a  woman.  Turn 
away  your  eyes  if  you  will ;  but  hear  me.  Why  do 
you  hate  me  so?  What  have  I  d.one?  You  loved  me 
once.  At  least  you  told  me  so ;  and  as  for  myself — 
but  I  shall  not  trouble  you  with  that.  We  plighted 
our  faith.  I  broke  my  word,  I  acknowledge  that.  But 
do  you  deny  the  claims  of  conscience  ?  Not  if  you  are 
the  man  you  have  always  seemed.  Did  it  cost  me 
nothing?  It  broke  my  heart,  and — you-ou — know-ow 
ow — it.  You  need  not  sneer!  Alice  knows  it,  and  my 
mother,  too,  if  you  do  not  know — or  care.  Look  at 
me,  and  remember  the  fresh-hearted  young  girl  you 
knew  four  years  ago — and  told  her — you  would — love 
her — al-al-al-always !" 

Mary  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  the  tears 
streamed  down  her  cheeks,  but  with  a  supreme  effort 
she  suppressed  her  sobs. 

The  captain  of  the  Myrmidons  was  silent. 

At  last,  Mary,  drying  her  eyes,  arose,  tottering,  from 
her  seat. 

"  And  so  I  have  come  in  vain !  Once  before  I  hum 
bled  myself  in  the  dust  before  you — and  you  spurned 
me—"  ' 

The  captain  shook  his  head  wearily. 

"Yes,  spurned  me,  and  in  the  presence  of  others;  so 
that  even  that  poor  dying  man  found  it  in  his  heart  to 
pity  me.  And  you,  too,  are  dying,  yet  have  not  the 
mercy  of  a  stranger  and  an  enemy.  You  bade  me  read 
Homer,  and  taught  me  to  admire  Achilles,  yet  even 
his  flinty  heart  was  melted  by  the  tears  of  Priam." 

The  adamantine  lips  trembled. 

"I  have  read  the  passage  again  and  again,  and  won 
dered  how  you,  as  brave  in  battle,  could  be  so  much 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  489 

more  pitiless  than  he.  And  Priam  was  a  man,  I  a 
woman ;  Priam  was  his  enemy,  while  I — " 

A  slight  tremor  shook  his  frame. 

"  At  least,  I  am  not  that  1" 

She  bowed  her  head  for  a  moment ;  then,  lifting  her 
clasped  hands  and  impassioned  and  despairing  eyes  to 
heaven : 

"  Merciful  Father,  have  I  not  suffered  enough  1  Must 
it  be  that  from  this  time  forth  I  shall  know  no  peace, — 
haunted  forever  by  the  cold  glitter  of  those  implacable 
eyes,  that  were  once — " 

"  Mary !" 

She  started.     Had  she  heard  aright  ? 

"  Mary,  my  beloved  1" 

She  gave  two  cries;  for  she  had  heard — and  she 
saw — one  of  exultant  joy,  the  other  of  frenzied  de 
spair. 

Found — and  lost ! 

Falling  upon  her  knees  by  the  bedside,  she  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands. 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  head. 

Then  the  great  sobs,  long  pent  up,  burst  forth, — 

"  Mary  1" 

His  words  were  too  precious  to  be  lost,  and  she  mas 
tered  herself  to  listen. 

"  Mary,  I  have  been  a  monster  I" 

She  seized  his  hand. 

"  Can  you  ever  forgive  me  ?" 

She  covered  it  with  tearful  kisses. 

"  I  don't  deserve  this ;  but  oh,  how  I  have  loved  you 
all  these  years  1" 

"  Oh,  don't  tell  me  that,  don't  tell  me  that  1"  And  a 
moan. burst  forth  from  her  very  heart. 

"  I  am  too  weak  to  talk.  Charley  will  tell  you  why 
I  was  so  bitter.  He  knows  all.  Ask  him." 

She  drew  up  a  chair,  and,  sitting  beside  him,  tried  to 
smile,  as  she  stroked  back  the  chestnut  hair  from  his 
forehead. 

"  Wonderful !"  said  she. 

He  looked  up. 

"  I  wish  Lucy  could  see  you  without  your  beard,  you 


490  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

are  so  much  like  her.     And  Edmund,  too.     Wonder 
ful !"  repeated  she,  drawing  back  for  a  better  look. 
"And  Mr.  Poythress,  too!    Father  and  son  were  never 
more  alike.     Look !"     And   she   handed   him  a  littlo 
broken  mirror  that  hung  upon  the  wall. 

She  looked  at  him  to  see  what  he  thought.  And  a 
thrill  of  terror  shot  through  her  heart.  She  had  nursed 
men  before  who  had  been  shot  through  the  lungs.  She 
pressed  her  handkerchief  to  his  lips. 

It  was  soaked  with  blood. 

The  door  opened  softly.  "  A  lady  and  a  gentleman 
from  Eichmond,"  said  the  surgeon.  "Will  you  see 
them  now  ?  Yes  ?" 

Charley  entered  first.  As  soon  as  she  saw  him  Mary 
threw  herself  upon  his  breast,  and  hung  upon  his  neck 
with  convulsive,  half-suppressed  sobs,  then  greeted 
Mrs.  Poythress  in  the  same  way.  Then  she  ran  back 
to  Charley.  "He  has  forgiven  me!" 

"No,  Charley;  she  has  forgiven  me.  And  you  camel 
I  knew  you  would.  And  she,  too !" 

Mrs.  Poythress,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  held 
one  of  his  hands,  Charley  the  other.  Mary  sat  stroking 
back  the  chestnut  hair.  The  room  was  dark;  for  a 
little  cloud  floated  across  the  face  of  the  sun,  whoso 
lower  edge  was  just  kissing  the  rim  of  the  hill  that 
rises  between  Massanetta  and  the  west. 

"  How  is  the  baby  ?"  asked  he,  with  a  faint  smile, 
and  gently  pressing  Charley's  hand.  "  What  did— 
Alice — name  him?" 

"  Alice  left  that  to  me.  He  was  christened — Theo- 
doric." 

"  True  as  steel !  I  die  happy !  Charley — my  Mary 
has — forgiven  me  my  selfish  anger.  If  there  is  any 
other  person — that  I  have  wronged — tell  her — my  last 
breath — " 

The  cloud  passed  on,  and  the  last  soft  rays  of  that 
setting  October  sun  flashed  upon  his  pallid  face. 

Mrs.  Poythress  sprang  to  her  feet.  Bending  over 
him  with  clasped  hands,  she  poured  upon  him  one  long 
look  of  passionate  interrogation. 

He  tried  to  speak.    His  eyes  glanced  from  face  to 


THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF.  491 

face,  as  though  beseeching  help.  Mrs.  Poythress  turned 
to  Charley.  He  stood  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
floor.  She  sprang  in  front  of  him,  and  placing  a  hand 
upon  either  shoulder,  and  drawing  him  close  to  her, 
with  wide-staring,  eager  eyes,  that  would  wring  an 
answer  from  him,  looked  into  his : 

"  Charley  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  he. 

She  turned  to  the  bed. 

He  had  heard;  and  an  ineffable  tenderness  had  como 
into  his  face,  softening,  sweeping  away,  with  the  rush 
of  unspeakable  love,  the  hard  lines  that  years  of  suf 
fering  had  wrought.  'Twas  a  boy's  face  once  more — 
'twas  Edmund's — 'twas —  ? 

She  stood  before  him  with  outstretched  arms,  eager 
with  certainty, — held  motionless  by  a  slender  thread 
of  doubt. 

He  tried  to  speak.     And  again — 

At  last,  with  one  supreme  effort,  and  borne  upon  hia 
last  breath,  a  murmured  word  broke  the  stillness  of  the 
room.  One  little  word, — but  that  the  sweetest,  tender- 
est,  that  tongue  of  man  can  utter, — 

"Mother!" 

"  My  Dory  1"  and  she  fell  upon  his  neck.  And  the 
snowy  hair  and  the  chestnut,  intermingled,  lay,  motion 
less,  on  one  pillow! 

And  which  of  the  two  shall  we  piiy? 

He  seemed  to  hear  that  name.  At  any  rate,  a  beam 
ing  look — a  serenely  exultant  smile — 

I  remember  hurrying,  once,  to  the  roar  of  a  battle 
which  was  over  before  our  command  reached  the  field. 
The  combatants  were  gone.  The  wounded,  even,  had 
been  removed.  Only  the  Silent  lay  there,  upon  their 
gory  bed.  Wandering  a  little  way  from  the  road, 
while  our  troops  halted,  I  saw  a  fair  young  boy  (he  was 
not  over  sixteen  years  of  age)  seated  upon  the  ground, 
and  leaning  back  against  a  young  white  oak,  with  his 
rifle  across  his  lap.  Struck  with  his  rare  beauty,  I 
drew  nearer. 

The  boy  sat  still. 

I  spoke  to  him. 


492  THE  STORY  OF  DON  MIFF. 

He  did  not  move. 

I  stooped  and  touched  his  damask  cheek. 

Twas  cold ! 

Kneeling  in  front  of  him,  I  saw  a  bullet-hole  in  his 
coat,  just  over  his  heart  I 

But,  even  then  I  could  hardly  believe.  His  head, 
thrown  back,  rested  naturally  against  the  tree.  His 
parted  lips  showed  two  rows  of  pearly  teeth.  His  up 
lifted  eyes,  which  seemed  to  have  drawn  their  azure 
from  that  sky  upon  which  they  were  so  intently  fixed, 
wide  open,  were  lit  with  a  seraphic  smile — 

As  though,  peering,  with  his  last  look,  into  that  blue 
ab3Tss,  he  saw  beckoning  angels  there ! 

Such  a  smile  illumined  poor  Dory's  face.  The  heroic 
spirit  had.  fled.  The  tumultuous,  high-beating  heart 
was  still  1 

And  who  among  us  all — who,  at  least,  from  whom 
the  sweet  bloom — the  rosy  hopes  of  youth  are  gone — 
who  among  us,  knowing  what  life  really  is,  would  dare 
awaken  its  fierce  throbbings  again  ? 

And  the  seraphic  smile  lingered,  lit  up  by  the  fare 
well  rays  of  that  October  sun. 

And  the  sun  went  down  behind  Massanetta's  hill  I 


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